Shit, I’ve said way too much already. Nobody knows all the things I just told Poppy.
That’s all been buried deep in a dark hole inside me for a very long time. But even with all that floating in the air between us, she’s as stubborn as a mule.
Finally, I lay it out. “If you want to have a good life, if you want to have the happily ever after you deserve . . . you’d run the other fucking way every time you see me. Because the worst thing of all is . . . I can’t keep pushing you away. I’m a greedy bastard.”
She pulls my chin up, forcing my eyes to hers. Hers are glittery with tears, but there’s steel in their blue depths. “You listen to me, Mister. If anyone should be mad as fuck at you, it’s me. But I know everything you just said . . . and asked you inside anyway. Because I see something that you’re either too hurt, too scared, or too ashamed to admit. There is still good in your heart. And for whatever you did, you’re also fixing it. If you were some turdnugget bastard, that’d be different. But you’re not. You care that I’m freaking the fuck out. Right?”
I snort. “Turdnugget. Is that even a word?”
“Right?” she demands, her fingers on my chin getting tighter.
She has zero sense of self-preservation and no concern that I’m on edge. The edge of what? I don’t know, but I know my skin feels too tight for everything bubbling up inside me.
“Yeah,” I answer begrudgingly.
“And you’re helping me, right?”
“Trying, but you keep trying to get yourself in trouble. B-n-E and assault with a deadly weapon, for starters.” The attempt at a joke is a last-ditch effort to thwart the impact of her scooping my soul out with a rusty spoon.
“Har-har,” she answers dryly. “And you care about your family. If you were irredeemable, you wouldn’t care about Caylee and her wedding. Right?”
“Yeah,” I agree less reluctantly this time, knowing she won’t let me duck away from her hard-nosed brand of self-help therapy.
I’ve got walls of concrete, built on a foundation of bedrock, and designed in a labyrinth of a maze, but she’s busting through like a bulldozer, going right for my center. It’s not an ooey-gooey soft place by any means, but the fire there suits Poppy. Instead of being burned by it, she’s acting like the embers of my soul are perfect for making some yummy s’mores.
“You didn’t ask me to stop stealing.”
Poppy looks at me in surprise. “Why would I?”
“I’m a thief with some obviously tortured feelings about that fact, but you didn’t tell me to just stop.”
“When, and if, you’re ever ready,” she says with a quiet, certain confidence, “you will. Or you’ll figure out a way to put your skills to work for good.” She offers me a brilliant smile, daring me to argue. “Because you are good.”
She doesn’t know everything, doesn’t know half of it, but she’s closer to the real me than anyone has been in a long time. I feel like myself, not a weapon or tool to be used by people in power.
With Poppy, it’s just us, and I want to fall into that, even if only for a little bit. I give in, taking her hand in mine and kissing her fingertips. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She’s given me more than she could ever imagine, but I want more. Her kindness makes me desperate for more. Just once. I need a physical way to shut off this emotional storm she’s conjured.
I swallow thickly.
“What are you thinking?” she asks softly, sensing the change in my mood.
“That I want to fuck the shit out of you.” Maybe by stripping all the feelings out of it, by being crude to the point of insulting her, she’ll understand.
But instead, she just grins. “Okay.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“I said, it’s about fucking time,” she says and then giggles. “Get it? Fucking time. Here or my bedroom? Kitchen?”
She points as she offers choices of where I can take her, where I can have her.
“Poppy . . . you didn’t ask me to stop stealing, but I need you to tell me to stop now. Or I won’t be able to. I want you too much.” I growl the confession, wishing I didn’t have a shred of decency left in me. Then, I could fuck her rough six ways to Sunday and not feel a hint of remorse.