Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
“Hospital?” I blurt out, stunned. What the fuck? So she’s having me sectioned? If I’m crazy, it’s only because she’s made me that way. Or is she talking rehab here? Therapy? She’s my therapy. “I don’t need a hospital, Ava.” I need you.
“Your hand.”
I frown as I take a peek, flexing it a little on a suppressed hiss. It looks like a fucking balloon. “It’s fine.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Ava, I don’t need to go to the hospital.” I don’t need a doctor poking at me, smelling the alcohol on me, assessing me, drawing conclusions.
“Don’t go then.” She leaves the bathroom, and I scowl at her back. The only problem my hand is giving me is the lack of ability to grab her and toss her on the bed. But I would certainly try, and I would sustain the pain, because it could never hurt as much as this.
I follow on heavy feet and fall to my back on the bed as she goes to the dressing room. I hear her rummaging around, and turn my face up to the ceiling, feeling annoyance that I have no right to feel creeping up on me. This is all so wrong.
“Here, put these on.” A pile of clothes lands next to me, and I drop my head to the side on a sigh that I absolutely want her to hear. How long will she do this? Haven’t we both suffered enough?
I make no attempt to dress, without the energy or the desire, my aching head refusing to help me out and give me any direction, other than what comes naturally when it comes to this woman, and I’ve already established that I can’t throw my weight around, not that I have the strength, anyway. Gently does it. I’m not filled with confidence. I tried gently already, when we first met, and I got absolutely nowhere.
I feel something tap my ankle and look down my body to see Ava holding my boxers at my feet.
Oh?
I sit up, looking down at her. Why would she put herself there? At my feet. Her face level with my dick. My blood surges, and no amount of self-control would stop it. God, and I thought the pain couldn’t get any worse.
I stand and she starts dragging my boxers up, and with her hand brushing my legs added to the already unbearable situation, my dick literally pings to life. So much so, it knocks the towel enough to loosen it around my waist.
It drops to the floor.
Ava freezes and stares at my raging hard-on for a few silent moments, and then in a delayed reaction, as if she’s suddenly remembered she’s resisting me, she startles, moving back. She looks up, her lips parted, her eyes alive. I know mine match. Grab her. Show her.
How long will she be able to keep up this fight? She still wants me. She wants me so badly, but forcing this is not the way forward. She’ll reject me, if only to make a point to herself. It’s like the time we met all over again, except this time, begrudgingly, I must do something other than making demands to win her over. “I’ll go to the hospital,” I say, pulling my boxers up. “If you want me to, I’ll go.” I’m playing fair. Fuck knows why, since she’s always loved me playing dirty. But sexual manipulation, something she categorically loves, feels so wrong given the delicate situation.
“Agreeing to have your hand looked at won’t make me fall to your feet in gratitude,” she fires, looking insulted.
What? Was there any need for that? I’m being amenable, doing as I’m told, and she gives me her lip in return? “I’ll let that slip,” I grate, bristling terribly. Rein it in, Ward.
She doesn’t take too kindly to my scorn. Never does. “I need to feed you.” She leaves in a strop, and I start to wonder if her mood has anything to do with the high possibility that she was ready to jump me just then and I stopped it. She has questions, and she’s told herself she won’t submit until she has her answers. Which basically means we’re never having sex again. I’ve seen the result of some truths being revealed. I’ll be damned if I’ll willingly put us through that again. So I have no choice but to find another way to give her what she wants and at the same time get what I need.
I pull on the sweats and T-shirt and trudge after her, inspecting my hand as I go. It really does look nasty. “Ouch,” I mutter, scowling as I take the stairs, pushing aside how much it fucking hurts. I gaze around my penthouse, sensing her absence even though she’s here, and walk into the kitchen, ready to apologize all over again. But I find it empty. “Ava?” I call, turning on the spot, listening, trying not to let panic get the better of me. But my voice rises naturally as I call her name repeatedly, my feet carrying my heavy body to the door. I grab the handle with my injured hand. “Fuck!” I bellow, the pain excruciating. I feel sick. I swap hands, yank the door open and head for the elevator, but a distant sound of a door closing stops me, and I look back, reversing my steps. A whooshing sound kicks in, and I follow it until I’m upstairs again, standing outside one of the spare bedrooms. The shower. Not our shower. More pain. Another kick in the gut.