“This is unacceptable behavior, Christopher. You can’t beat up every man who tries to talk to me. It’s not okay.” I shrug, frustrated. “I’m not a possession. You don’t have the right to act like that.”
“He was asking for it.”
“So be the bigger person and walk away. This isn’t who you are. You’re a lover, not a fighter.”
His eyes hold mine.
“Go and finish your shift. I’m going to bed.”
“You’re not coming back to the party?”
“No. My dickhead boyfriend spoiled my mood.”
He exhales heavily, disappointed in himself.
“Just go.” I point inside, and he turns and trudges back up the stairs.
“You’re really going to bed?” he asks me again.
“Yes,” I snap. I march past him down the corridor to our room as he follows me.
I open the door to our room, and I glance up at him.
“I’ll see you when I finish?” he asks hopefully.
“If you carry on like an idiot and get in one more fight tonight . . . so help me god.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” I march into the room, and he stands tentatively by the door. “And you’re sleeping on the floor tonight,” I add.
He nods and then lingers as if waiting for something.
“And I’m not telling you I love you . . . because you’re just an idiot.” I turn down the blankets in a huff.
“I’m not telling you either,” he says.
I smirk, trying to hide my smile, and I know it’s going to be okay. “Good, don’t then.” I climb into bed. “Get out.”
His eyes twinkle with a certain something. “I think you have anger issues,” he says.
“So help me god, Christopher.” I throw a cushion at him. “Get out.” It hits the wall beside his head, and he smiles his first genuine smile.
“Good night, Grumpy.”
“There is nothing good about this night,” I lie.
The door quietly closes, and I smile into the darkness.
We fought, and he stayed . . . progress.
It’s just at 3:00 a.m. when I hear the door open. Christopher tiptoes in to the flashlight on his phone, undresses, and climbs into bed behind me and snuggles up to my back. He smells of soap, freshly showered, and I smile with my eyes closed.
He’s home.
It’s been a long night without him. Even when fighting, he was still missed.
“What time is it?” I mumble.
“Three.” He kisses my temple. “Go back to sleep, baby.” He kisses my shoulder from behind, and goose bumps scatter up my spine. He pulls my hair back and gently kisses my neck. “I’m sorry about tonight,” he murmurs against my skin; his fingers trail up and down my skin as he thinks. “I just can’t stand the thought of someone taking you from me,” he murmurs sadly. “It makes me fucking crazy.”
I can feel his erection as it grows behind me. Christopher Miles is a sexual being. This is his way of making up. He’s scared; I want to make him feel better.
I stretch my neck out, granting him access and taking the cue. His hand roams over my skin up to my breast, his thumb dusting over my nipple as he takes my earlobe between his teeth.
His erection digs into my hip, and even in darkness I can see it so clearly.