Year 28 - J.L. Mac Page 0,25
the frosting because on my hand is a smatter of icing. “Indulge a little Rae,” he demands low. Frozen in place by his presence looming so dark and tempting and familiar somewhere in my mind, a distant part of me is horrified to watch him lift my hand to his lush mouth. I watch mystified as his tongue darts out and leisurely licks and kisses away the icing from my skin, his eyes never leaving mine.
“That should be us in there,” he murmurs solemnly between kisses.
Yes, Optimism wheezes.
He rolls my hand upward and presses his mouth into my palm, depositing a reverent kiss there. Wetness pools in my center and if we weren’t in public at this moment, I think I would already be clawing at his shirt and pants. He presses my hand to his chest, holding it there while his other hand grips my hip firmly.
My inner circle have all fainted, their folding chairs toppled, their bodies in heaps on the floor.
“Mmm,” he hums appreciatively. “So good,” he whispers.
“That’s ridiculous,” I whisper, ignoring his praise.
“Is it?” He pulls me closer. My body draws forward without protest like an invisible tether still links us.
Maybe it does.
Heat from his skin burns through his clothing and leaches into mine causing every wanton nerve ending to stand on end waving for his attention.
“Stop it,” I demand raggedly.
“Not a chance, Snow. We made a deal. You promised me.” He brushes his thumb across my jaw and down my neck and to my secret horror my eyes slip shut and I lean into him, not only welcoming his ministrations but also silently pleading for more. “Why isn’t that us in there?” he asks, breathing softly against my ear with one big hand cupping the other side of my face. His words are ice water on the fog of desire building between us.
“Have you forgotten?” I whisper leaning away from him to look him squarely in his cruelly beautiful eyes. His question, rhetorical or not spawns a torrent of anger inside me, replacing the lust that was just marinating my brain until it was pliant mush for Sylas to play with. “You left. You didn’t choose me. You didn’t choose us. You left,” I accuse as I widen the space between us until only my hands remain tucked in his. “You left me when you swore you wouldn’t.”
“That all that happened?” His honey eyes study my face as he employs that persuasive look that normally disarms me, opens me up for him to read every line.
“That was enough.” I shake my head, tug my hand from his grasp and turn away.
“Yeah, well, you made me a promise and I’m not about to let you renege.” He shrugs.
“You made promises too. I guess we’re both liars,” I mutter on my way down the hall.
“Rae,” he calls. “I brought you a little birthday gift,” he says smiling. He bends down, picking up a black gift bag from the floor at his feet. He hands it to me and nods, waiting for me to open it. Moving tissue paper aside I gasp and feel my cheeks burn bright at the sight of the bra—my bra that I left at Chick’s place neatly folded in the bottom of the gift bag. I stuff the tissue back in place and I march out of there before this madness between us spirals any further. I should actually turn and thank him for saying and doing the exact right thing to wake me up and fuel my Blind Rage—to remind me of everything that hurt. It’s safer to be angry with him than it is to miss him so desperately my chest aches when I stop to consider my life for longer than two seconds. He’s the reason for all my pain, even if he has no idea my wounds exist. I know they exist. I feel them, carry them with me every day, and struggle against their bulky, burdensome weight.
It doesn’t matter that he brought me tremendous love and happiness all those years ago. It doesn’t matter that I made a promise, and I had meant it back then. As much joy as he enriched my life with he also caused the deepest, darkest pain.
In spades, Self-Preservation adds. She isn’t wrong.
Chapter 8
Raegan
16 years old…
“Ahem.” I snap my attention to the new guy. He’s the new stocker here and new to town as well. “Daydreamin’?” he says with a raspy voice.
“Ah, no,” I mumble. “Just reading,” I pull the book from beneath