Harlow

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What went wrong? One minute we’re kissing, and the next he’s gone. I feel a thousand different things right now, but confusion is at the top of the list.

I’d never been kissed like that. So carefully, so preciously. It was a kiss that was deep with meaning and I’d never felt so special in my life.

But, god, could I have been any more obvious? I wanted him. I made sure he knew that. And damn, he wanted me. He’d been hard as a rock nearly the whole night. Watching Spartacus he’d been shifting during the sex scenes, as if embarrassed by them, or by his natural reaction to them.

Or by his reaction to me.

When I’d first realized he was standing on the dock outside my boat, staring up at me, my core had gone slick and wet and hot all at once, because the raw hunger in his eyes had been something incredible to behold. But then, instantly, he’d turned around, and the honesty in the gesture had made my heart melt. It was the gesture of someone without guile, without dishonesty, or self-serving desire.

My body had been screaming—look at me, touch me, take me!

My heart had been telling me to slow down.

My mind had been torn between the two.

When we’d settled in to watch the movie I’d made sure he got several opportunities to take advantage of my near nudity, but he never had, other than taking a few furtive glances. I thought he would untie the robe, let his hand slide down to fully cup my ass, or caress my tits. Or kiss me. Or move my hand to his cock, which had been partially hard the whole night.

He never did any of those things.

But I know he felt something. I know he wanted me. That kiss alone told me, in the brief moment it lasted, that he was attracted to me and wanted more with me. But he never acted on it.

And then, halfway through the kiss, he just utterly freaked.

My mom used to have panic attacks. She still does, but less frequently, and she manages this with medication—so I recognized the symptoms of a real, actual panic attack. And there is no question in my mind that Xavier’s freak out was a panic attack.

Had it been triggered by something? Did I do something? I wracked my brain, but could think of nothing. Yet the panic had been real and undeniable. There was pain there, too, along with fear and self-recrimination.

He is hard to read, emotionally, and maybe a little closed off but, in that moment, his expression had been open, and I’d seen a frantic conflation of emotions, a whirlpool of intense mania—anger, fear, hurt, doubt, I don’t even know what all, too much to read all at once.

At first I’d thought that maybe he was just a very reticent type of person, but that moment made me realize he shielded his emotions from the world behind mile-high walls. Walls of archaic, formal speech, and elaborate vocabulary, and robotic syntax. He was hiding.

When he sat, he never fidgeted, never twitched or scratched or shifted; when he stood it was the same thing, he assumed a position and held it, remaining motionless. It wasn’t natural. And, I was realizing, it wasn’t just a quirk of his but, like his speech, something he did on purpose, for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom.

He was gone now. He’d taken off at a dead sprint, leaving me on the deck all but naked, worked up, confused, and feeling more hurt than I had any right to be.

We’d barely kissed, so why did it feel like a rejection? I knew, mentally, he hadn’t been rejecting me, that whatever had spurred his panic attack hadn’t been prompted because he didn’t want me, or because of what we were doing—I knew it was something else. But, still, his leaving hurt.

His hands had felt so good on my body—the way he looked at me had made me feel so sexy, so beautiful, so sensual, so powerful. His words, those archaically eloquent and stunningly heartfelt compliments—they made me feel things I’d never felt before, as if I really was special and worthy and valued. They weren’t just pretty pickup lines, meant to impress—he really truly meant them.

And hearing those things was addictive.

He was addictive.

For the first time in my entire life, I felt like maybe I wanted someone more than he wanted me. And that feeling was scary as hell.

What was I supposed to do?

Chase him? And what would I even say if I found him right now?

Would he come back? The thought that he may not come back sent a pang through me so powerful it terrified me. How could I want him this bad already?

It had to be just a physical thing.

Right?

It was just libido, hormones gone haywire. It had been a long time since I’d had sex, so my hormones must be out of whack. I was simply feeling a weird form of sexual frustration.

But that lie didn’t scan even as I thought it.

God, what the hell was going on with me?

Maybe spending time with Xavier had been a mistake—the whole thing had been a mistake. I should never have gotten involved with him. Because now…

Now I needed to know what had happened. I needed to know more about him. I needed him to come back. I needed him to kiss me again. I needed to laugh with him. Tease him. I wanted to know what drove him, what prompted the panic attack, why he tensed every time I touched him, why he ignored all my obvious hints that I wanted him. I wanted to be the person to get through his walls,

I wanted to discover the way past all that.

What was it? I couldn’t put it into words, but he was just different, and it was refreshing and exhilarating.

I couldn’t figure him out, and I loved that.

I couldn’t predict him, and I loved that, too.

Would he kiss me again?

Would he touch me again?

Would he come back?

I didn’t know the answers…and I kind of loved that, too.

As an A-list celebrity, I’d grown used to having the world at my fingertips. “Yes” was the default answer to everything. Throw a stick, and I’d hit at least six people who didn’t have the word “no” in their vocabulary, thus my microscopically small staff—Lindsey, Martin, and Emily. That was it. And even they went out of their way to make sure I got the “yes” no matter what.

With Xavier, I wasn’t in control of the situation. I didn’t know the outcome.

“Yes, whatever you want” wasn’t the predetermined answer.

That, too, was addictive.

Everything about Xavier Badd was addictive.