14

Donovan was thinking about Marin. About almost kisses and soulful hazel eyes. About cicada songs and secrets shared in the dark. About all the things he wanted to do with her, to her. The fantasy was great. But he vaguely registered that Marin wasn’t the one who was currently kissing down his neck.

He tried to fit the disjointed pieces of the current state of affairs together, tried to make sense of what was happening. Everything felt wrong. Why did it feel wrong? He concentrated. Elle. He was on Elle’s couch. How the fuck had he gotten here again? Like hillbillies on moonshine, his thoughts were stumbling around and bumping into each other, slow and sloppy. Focus. He tried to will his mind to orient itself. Memories came back in wisps. Elle had asked to talk to him back at her place since he’d canceled on her earlier in the night.

He hadn’t wanted to follow her here. He’d been knotted up with all that had transpired with Marin. But Marin had walked off, and he’d known Elle was pissed about finding the two of them together. So even though he and Elle didn’t have any kind of exclusive arrangement and he hadn’t touched her in a month, he’d felt like a dick anyhow and had agreed to come over to talk.

But while they were talking and he was trying to explain how this arrangement was no longer a good idea, Elle had served sangria. Lots and lots of sangria. And now Elle had crawled over to his side of the couch and was straddling him. She was taking control this time. But his head was muzzy, and though his dick was half-interested beneath her grinding movements, his mind was on someone else. He was getting turned on by images of a woman with short, dark hair who smelled like cotton candy and had cheeks that blushed at the slightest provocation. Had lips that wanted to be kissed . . .

Fuck.

He tugged away. “Elle, we need to—”

“Go to the bedroom. I know.” She pushed her long hair away from her face. “But I thought a change of scenery might be nice. You can fight to be on top.”

She pulled her T-shirt over her head, revealing lace-encased breasts, and took his hand, placing it over her and squeezing for him.

He winced and moved his hand away. His equilibrium whirled. “I’m fucking drunk, Elle.”

“Well, I can stay on top, then.” She slid her hand between them and stroked his now softening cock. “I don’t mind doing the work tonight. Just stay hard for me and we’re good.”

He grabbed her wrist to stop her, his movements imprecise and delayed. “Goddammit, can you slow down for a second? I said I was drunk.”

She rolled her eyes and sat back on his thighs to look down at him. “Are we seriously having a consent conversation right now? It’s not like you don’t know what we’re doing. This is nothing new. You’re drunk every time we fuck, Donovan. It’s your thing.”

The words rolled off her lips like it was no big deal, but they hit him like a freight truck. “My thing?”

She shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing ever.

“What? Now I’m an alcoholic?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know as well as I do that you’re not. But you never fuck sober. You drink and get to play a role. Saves you from that real inconvenient shit like intimacy and relationships and conversation.” She gave him a brittle smile. “Which is why I know you were trying to fuck your new trainee tonight.”

Donovan blinked, the accusation making it through the alcohol haze like a fiery arrow. It hit the target and sent a wave of anger rushing through him, clearing his head enough to act. He took Elle by the arms, lifted her off his lap, and stood. “I’m not trying to do anything with Marin. We’re friends. We knew each other in school.”

“Right,” Elle said from behind him, sarcasm oozing off her tone. “Just a celebratory drink and a little face stroking between friends. A few more glasses of wine, and you would’ve been parked between her legs giving her a big welcome to the neighborhood.”

He whirled around. “We were talking about our dead parents, Elle. It was a gesture of comfort. Jesus Christ.”

She tilted her head, surprise morphing her features. “Your parents are dead?”

He stared at her, realizing that they’d fucked for all these months, and he hadn’t told her a damn thing about himself. Not that she’d asked. They’d always been . . . drinking and playing the game. He looked away and raked a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this anymore.”

She groaned and stepped up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Oh, come on, don’t be a baby and pout. Use that anger on me. You know that’s what I like. I like you when you’re pissed.”

He gritted his teeth. He thought of all the times she’d invited him over, how she’d always had bottles of wine at the ready, how she’d purposely try to goad him so he’d get rougher in bed. And though his limits were pretty far outside the norm, her craving for the violent stuff surpassed some of his boundaries. So he’d hold his line, and she’d try to push him past it. It was a dance they danced. But apparently it’d gone far beyond what he’d thought.

She’d figured out why he drank and had encouraged it, had used it to get what she wanted. His stomach turned. Fuck. He thought they played games of control—and they had—he’d just never realized he’d been the one getting played.

He took her hands and unwound himself from her grip. He met her gaze. “We’re done here, Elle.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What? Because of the new girl?”

“Because this, us”—he pointed between the two of them—“was fucked up from the start. Just took me until now to see exactly how much.”

She crossed her arms. “Oh, come off that high horse. This works because we’re both screwed up. We get a fix from each other. You’ve known that all along.”

He sighed and ran a hand over the back of his head. “Maybe I did. But I’m done making it worse. We can be fucked up alone.”

She stared at him for a second and then shook her head. “Go to hell, Donovan.”

Her voice was quieter and when she blinked, her eyes went shiny. Donovan couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This woman never cried, never showed her poker hand. He didn’t know what in her life had made her so hard, but seeing her about to cry made him feel like a world-class asshole. She’d used him, sure. But he’d used her right back. There were no saints here.

He walked over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t waste tears on me, Elle. You’re a smart, beautiful woman. You can do better than this.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not fucking crying. Get over yourself. I know I can do better than you. You’re a prick. I don’t even like you.”

He sighed as he lowered his arms and then walked over to her kitchen counter to grab a sticky note and pen she’d left by the phone. He scribbled down an address, his handwriting more messy than usual with the lingering effects of the alcohol. “There’s a BDSM club in the city. It’s a well-run place with a good membership. I bet you can find what you need there.” He held out the slip of paper to her. “I’m not it.”

“Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, you asshole,” she said, not making any move to take the note from him. “You have no idea what I want or need.”

“Okay. You’re probably right. All the more reason for me to leave.” He left the note on the counter and turned toward the door. “Good luck, Elle.”

“So that’s it?” Her tone was a knifepoint, poking him with sharp, stiff jabs.

He kept his back to her, this sense of calm coming over him. “Yep. That’s it.”

He walked out the door and didn’t look back.