Текст книги "Walk Through Fire"

Автор книги: Kristen Ashley

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“Okay,” she whispered.

He kept grinding. “Gonna play with this body.”

Her breaths started coming hard as she shifted her hips to try to rub up and down his cock and her nails dug into his back.

“No rules, Millie.”

“No rules,” she gasped, desperate, swinging her calves in, trying to find purchase.

He had her.

And he totally fucking didn’t.

“Am I even here?” he sneered. “Or am I just dick?”

And again, like last night, thinking he had her before she’d turned the tables on him, she did it again.

She opened her eyes, stared fixed into his, and replied, “You’re always here, Logan. Even when you were gone. But since you’re here and you got what you wanted,” she lifted her head, putting her lips to his and scoring his back with her nails as she finished, “stop fucking around and take it.”

Powerless to do anything else, he thrust his tongue in her mouth and took it.

It didn’t take her long to give it all.

When she did, he let go and gave it all.

He was nibbling her lips and using her pussy to milk his cock after they’d both found it when she drew her hands out of his shirt and unclasped her legs from around his back.

He lifted his head and stared down at her.

In her pretty brown eyes, sex and fear.

Fuck yeah, he got what he was after. All of it.

He didn’t smile, even if he wanted to.

She moved her gaze to his ear, mumbling, “I have to go.”

He pulled out and shoved a hand between them. He shifted her panties back in place, then tucked his dick in his jeans before he pulled her up and set her on her feet, pinning her to the desk so she had it and him to support her. He kept her there, her eyes to his shoulder, one of her hands to the desk behind her, not touching him, as he did up his jeans and she used her other hand to yank down her skirt.

She was closing down but it didn’t matter.

He got what he wanted.

“No rules, Millie,” he reiterated, like a warning.

“I need to clean up,” she told his shoulder.

He lifted a fist to her jaw and gently forced her eyes to him.

“No rules,” he stated.

“I got that, High,” she replied, a thread of defeat in her tone that, fuck it all, he did not like.

“You can end this, you give it up,” he reminded her. “Tell me what the fuck you want so I can say no and we both can move on.”

Determination stole into her gaze as she replied, “You don’t get this but I don’t want anything. And this will end, High, when I finally convince you of that.”

He dipped closer. “Got my hand between your legs, you were soaked for me, Millie.”

“Is that a surprise?” she returned.

“For a woman who wants nothin’ from me, yeah,” he answered.

She scored another hit when she whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

Jesus.

She did not just say that like she meant it.

He stared down at her, the words still ringing in his ears.

Fuck him, she did.

“Mill—” he started to growl.

She cut him off, her tone stronger, “And you’re good at it. You were always good at it. So again, is that a surprise?”

“You want me gone, you’re not gonna pant and beg for it,” he informed her.

“I want you gone but if you’re gonna give it until I can get you gone, it’s that good, I’m gonna take it,” she stated, and finally touched him only to lift a hand, put it to his chest, and put pressure on. “Now, move back. I’m already late. I don’t need to be later.”

Sensing he was going to get nothing more out of this, but having gotten what he wanted anyway, High stepped back.

She quickly moved away from him, toward a door he saw led to a bathroom.

He watched her do it, eyes to her ass, and doing that he decided he was going to go for more and he didn’t care how late she was.

So he told her back, “It wasn’t lost on you, what you did to me.”

She turned and he saw her cheeks still flushed from sex, but the rest of her face was pale and her eyes were guarded.

“ ’Preciate the orgasms, Millie,” he continued. “But cannot get a lock on how any woman could do that to a man, and no matter it’s ten days or twenty years, come back for more. Release me. Tell me your fuckin’ game. If it isn’t as twisted as the last one, you need to get off, I’ll give that to you until I find better.”

The guard went down as anger flashed. “Well, thanks, High. What a sweet offer.”

He lost patience. “Millie, ain’t dickin’ around.”

Then he braced when her expression changed again. It was fast, the suffering that slashed through it before she hid it. But it didn’t leave her and he knew it because it colored her tone.

“You’re released.”

He searched her expression.

Fuck, she meant that.

He felt his shoulders constrict.

“Just like that?” he asked.

“I made a mistake,” she said quietly. “A big one, as it turned out. But it’s been made. There’s no rectifying it.”

“The mistake?” he pushed.

“Coming to see you,” she told him.

Jesus, were they getting somewhere?

“And you did that because... ?” he prompted.

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Fucking shit.

More games.

“Millie, this is the fuckin’ game I been talkin’ about,” he clipped.

She flinched, not a communication of discomfort or pain, one of frustration.

But he again didn’t give a fuck.

She was frustrated?

He was too and the woman had started this bullshit.

“Christ, if you’d just spit it out, we’d be done with this,” he reminded her.

She locked eyes with him. “Release me.”

“Jesus, Millie—”

“You’re coming to me,” she pointed out. “Stop it. Release me.”

He threw an arm out to indicate the desk and the shit he swept all over the floor and asked, “Gonna be hard for you to convince me that isn’t the goal you wanna achieve, wrap me up tight in that wet pussy of yours and play with me however you want. I know that game, caught up in it before, so I also know you’re good at it.”

She attempted to instigate another score.

“It’s almost impossible to believe, looking at you, knowing who you are, knowing who you were, and listening to you speak to me like that.”

But that was taking it too far.

And High was not a man who allowed that shit.

Not anymore.

Not since Millie taught him not to do it.

“Fuck, bitch,” he snarled, “you cannot seriously be standing there tryin’ the guilt game on me when you fucked up my whole goddamned life, and like that wasn’t enough, waltzed back into it, you lookin’ for me, to try to do it again.”

And apparently, what he said took it too far for Millie.

He knew it when she leaned forward, her beautiful face twisted in pain, and hissed, “I’ve been walking through fire for you for twenty years, Logan. Do not stand in my office that you walked into without an invitation and feed me your shit. This is revenge. This is your way of hurting me after I hurt you. I’m not stupid. You want it?” She leaned back and tossed out both arms. “Take it. But I’m not gonna get on my knees and let you shove my face down so you can’t see it but you can fuck faceless pussy knowing exactly how much you’re humiliating me. You need to take from me, I’ll give it but only because I’m giving to get.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t get when you were on your knees for me at Bill’s,” he sneered.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know exactly the insult you were delivering,” she fired back. “You knew, High. You knew. You knew you were delivering the worst insult a man could give to a woman. You knew it and do not tell me you didn’t.”

He couldn’t tell her that because she was right.

And she’d deserved it.

At least he’d thought that at the time.

Staring into her face, a face saturated with fury and hurt, he was thinking twice.

“Tell me how you walked through fire for me,” he ordered.

“No,” she whispered, the word soft but it held so much power, it left a gash in the air of the room and he felt his chest burning like he was struggling for breath. “Never,” she went on. “I was gonna give that to you but then you lost the right to it.”

“So it’s still game on,” he noted.

“Not if you release me,” she replied.

He decided to lay it out.

“Clue in, Millie. I’m comin’ to you, so who’s got a hold on who?”

“You’ve got the power to let this be over,” she told him.

“How’s that when I don’t even have to fuckin’ kiss you to make you drenched for me?” he returned.

“God!” she cried, looking to the ceiling.

He ignored that and shared, “This isn’t done, we both know it and I’m guessin’ from this irritatin’ conversation we got no choice but to ride whatever the fuck this is out, but it’s me who’s gotta do it hopin’ you don’t rip me up in the process.”

She tipped her head down and again locked eyes on him. “If you think that, then you aren’t paying attention.”

“Baby,” he drawled, “trust me, you got my complete attention.”

It was then she landed the hammer.

“No, I don’t and from the way you’re treating me, it’s clear I never did.”

With that, she ended their conversation by turning, entering the bathroom, and slamming the door and he heard the lock go.

He could bust down the door but enough was enough.

The bitch told him she walked through fire for him, insinuating that there was something he fucking didn’t catch back in the day.

Bullshit.

Total bullshit Millie games.

And High slammed out of her office thinking precisely that.

But the blow had been delivered.

And he’d walked through her house and he’d seen how she’d changed, how she lived like a ghost, how she was nothing like the woman he thought he knew her to be.

So he couldn’t stop the nagging at the edge of his mind that Millie hadn’t cut him out but instead he’d lost her and he hadn’t only done it back then but he’d done it again now.

His Millie was gone.

In every way she could be.

*  *  *

Later that night, when High had switched out his bike for his truck, he went back to Millie’s.

Not her house.

The alley.

He knew it was stupid.

He didn’t care.

He told himself he needed every bit of ammunition he could get in this war and that crate was full of ammunition.

He wouldn’t allow himself to believe he went back for a different reason.

But when he got to the Dumpster and got out of his truck, he saw the crate was gone.

He lifted the lid on the Dumpster and saw that it hadn’t been emptied nor had the crate been thrown into it.

It was a decent crate, could be used for a lot of shit.

Someone had stolen it and stolen High and Millie with it.

Likely they’d toss all the photos. Three years of living a dream, gone.

He got back into his truck, his gut roiling, his hands clenching the steering wheel with fury.

She’d dumped them.

And now they were gone.

And as he drove away, High decided the bitch would pay for that too.

Twenty-two years ago...

Logan woke to an empty bed.

He blinked away sleep, looked to Millie’s nightstand and caught the time on her alarm clock.

Then he threw back the covers, got out of bed, and walked out of their bedroom.

He didn’t find her in the second bedroom, a room she’d set up as a place she could study.

He knew why he didn’t find her there. When she did late nights like that, she did them at the dining room table downstairs so any noise she made wouldn’t disturb him.

Unsurprisingly, he found her where he knew she’d be but he found her slumped over, cheek to a notepad, books open everywhere, dead asleep.

He moved around the room, shutting off lights, before he moved to his girl.

Gently, he lifted her away from the table, then up in his arms.

As gently as he did it, she roused.

“Wha... oh man,” she muttered drowsily. “Did I crash?”

“Yeah, baby,” he replied, moving from the living room into the foyer to the stairs.

“I can walk, Snooks.”

Logan felt his lips curve up.

Snooks.

The boys called him High.

Millie didn’t call him High.

She called him Logan, Low, and Snooks when they were in company and when they weren’t.

But she called him Snook’ums when no one was around.

It was goofy and it was cute and it was all Millie.

He loved it.

Halfway up the steps, he stopped and put her to her feet but he didn’t take his arm from around her.

She slid hers around him and they walked up the rest of the stairs together.

“You get done what you needed?” he asked.

“No clue. I don’t remember when I crashed, but I’m guessing... no,” she answered.

Logan’s lips didn’t curve up at that.

They tightened.

It was finals. She was taking a heavy second semester schedule in hopes of graduating in three and a half years rather than four so they could start their life and their family and do it without delay.

She was also still working part-time at the mall. She made dick but no matter how often he told her she should do it, she wouldn’t give up the job.

She also wouldn’t give up on him, the Club, their life.

She was all in with everything. She never missed a class. She studied between classes. She was never late for work. She studied when she got home. They went to movies. They went to bars. They went to parties. They went to concerts. They went to rallies. She cooked for him. She cleaned the house for him. And she studied more whenever she had the chance.

Business. That was her major.

“Don’t know what I’m gonna do with it,” she’d told him on a grin. “Just know I’m gonna kick ass whatever it is I do.”

He believed that. She didn’t do anything in half measures. She sucked life dry, setting her teeth in deep, straight to the bone and pulling out the marrow.

But this shit had to end. She was about to finish her first year of college and she wasn’t going to take a break. She was going to take two classes during the summer and go full-time at the store in the mall until her sophomore year started.

Which meant more of this. All-nighters where he went to bed alone, woke up alone, saw her faking it and drained dry but giving him a grin and the cute when he knew she was about ready to pass out.

He watched her pull off her clothes, dropping them to the floor as she wandered to their bed, and he decided it was time for this shit to stop.

She got in and Logan got in with her. Pulling her into his arms, he tangled himself up in her as she returned the favor and snuggled deep.

“Babe, you gotta quit that job,” he told the top of her head.

“Need the money,” she muttered sleepily.

“You don’t,” he replied. “I can cover us.”

And he could. Chaos business, the garage and shop called Ride, and the other shit they did, he could totally cover her and him. He could even do more. Get them nicer furniture, new shit that looked good. After a year or two put money down on a house. Take her on vacation to get her away from her work. Take her to Paris and kiss her under the Eiffel Tower.

He could give them better than what they had.

He could give his girl everything.

He could do that.

Absolutely.

“Can’t do that,” she mumbled, sounding very close to sleep.

“Millie,” he gave her a squeeze, “you’re gonna burn out, you keep this shit up.”

“Only two more years,” she replied. “Most... two and a half.”

“Babe—” he started but didn’t go on when she suddenly tipped her head back.

“No, Logan,” she whispered, her voice still sounding tired but it was also strong. “I do my bit.”

“You’ll do your bit when you got your degree and you get a fancy-ass job that makes us a lotta cake,” he returned.

“I do my bit now. I do my bit every day,” she shot back stubbornly.

He dragged her up his body so they were eye to eye in the dark. “You know it’s no hardship, me takin’ care of you. You also know that’s my job, one I get off on, so stop bein’ so stubborn and let me do it.”

“If I can do my part, I will, and I can, Low,” she retorted.

“Millie, this is the third night in a row you crashed at the dining room table,” he reminded her. “When it’s finals, it’s worse, but it’s bad all the time and that shit’s not good for you.”

“I have to.”

Logan went silent at the fierce tone in her voice.

“I have to, Logan.” She slid a hand up his chest to curve it around the side of his neck. “I know you can take care of me. I love how you take care of me. But I have to do this. For you. For us. To prove something to myself. My parents. You. I have to. And if you wanna take care of me, that’s how you can take care of me. By letting me do it.”

“I know what you need, baby,” he whispered back. “And you gotta know I don’t need that. I’m in. I know you’re in. We’re both in. All in. There’s times I gotta have your back. There’ll be times you’ll hafta have mine. Let me have your back now, Millie. It’ll mean a lot you got the time to do what you gotta do and I can go to bed beside you.”

She was silent a minute and he thought he had her, then she shook her head against the pillow.

“Please understand,” she said softly. “I just need to do my part. I need you to know I’m going to. No, that I’m able to. Life’s gonna throw a lot at us, Snook’ums. I need you to know I’m ready to do my bit when it does.”

She needed that. He knew it. He heard it. Fuck, he even felt it.

And he knew why she needed to give it to him. They were young. They were starting early. They were both all in. And they both wanted the same out of life. To be together, to build a family, to build a life. Neither wanted to delay.

So she needed to prove she could stick it, through thick and thin.

He didn’t like it but if his girl needed it, he was going to give it.

So he gave in.

“Okay, Millie.”

She snuggled even closer, pushing in to kiss his throat. Then she took her hand from his neck, trailed it down his chest so she could wrap her arm around him.

“Thanks, Low,” she murmured. It was again sleepy but there was feeling behind it.

Yeah, she needed it.

So he settled in, his girl cuddled close, and he gave it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Going Through the Motions

Millie

MY ALARM WENT.

I opened my eyes, looked at the time, sleepily went through the magnitude of things I had to do to get ready to face the day, decided on one I could not do in order to buy more sleep, and I hit snooze.

I settled back in, closing my eyes, exhausted.

Because of all that was going on with Logan, I hadn’t found sleep easy the night before and I didn’t sleep great when I found it.

And it was getting on my busy season. I had a wedding coming up in two weeks and the bride was still changing her mind about practically everything. I also had a fiftieth anniversary party that should go off like clockwork, but it was happening that coming weekend, so I had to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.

But it wasn’t just the holiday season coming making things crazy. I was also reconnoitering clients’ homes and offices to create design schemes I would present, then I’d need to make sure I had everything to put my designs into action. Sometimes this took months. And it was taking those months, starting about two weeks ago.

I usually worked nine– to ten-hour days and nearly always put in time during the weekends. But it was getting to my six-day-a-week, ten– to twelve-hour-a-day season.

And to do that and be able to do it well I needed sleep, something I wouldn’t get if Logan remained in my life.

I should never have let this game with him go on.

It wasn’t just stupid.

It was unhealthy.

When he’d showed at my house Monday night, I should have done everything in my power to get him gone. Then I should have gone to Ride, talked to that Tyra woman, told her to stay out of my business and also told her to tell Tack to keep Logan out of it. And to do that, I should have threatened to call the cops.

Chaos did not like cops.

There were a variety of reasons why, including the fact that they grew and sold weed back in the day (and maybe still did).

I knew there was more to it than that but Logan had never shared any of it. And I knew whatever that more was was becoming a bigger part of Club business.

I knew this because, in the time I spent with Logan, Chaos’s antipathy toward police had grown to paranoia.

I also knew it because Logan would often need to go off and do “Club business,” business he did not share when he got back to me, business that could happen at any hour of the day and night, and the longer we were together, the more often that happened.

Not to mention, the more wired he got when he got home, agitation mixed with adrenaline that might translate to good things, like fabulous sex, but it was nevertheless concerning.

As concerning as it was, it was also Logan and I trusted him. I trusted him to do right by me, himself, us, so I didn’t question it. Not ever.

Until I could use it to be a means to an end.

So threatening getting the police involved would make my point and I should have done that.

But I didn’t because I was weak and needy and Logan was Logan. True he was a new, asshole Logan who cut me to the quick, didn’t mind doing it, and thus did it repeatedly. In fact, he got off on it in a way I knew it was his sole purpose to come back and dish out more.

But he was still Logan, older, wiser, and even better with his hands, mouth, and cock.

And as fucked up as it was, I had to admit I was getting off on the game in my own way. I was not in control of it as I was in control of every millimeter of space around me, every aspect of my work, every second of my life. I had no idea when he’d show and when he showed, what he’d do.

I just knew what I’d get.

His attention. As damaging as it was, it was still Logan in my space, eyes on me, mouth talking to me (and doing other things), hands touching me.

And I’d get all that as well as the orgasm he’d give me and the orgasm he’d have that I gave him.

Of course, thinking all of this, I did not snooze, so when the alarm went off again, I was wide awake and had so much to do that day I couldn’t take the eight more minutes another snooze would give me.

I hit the Off button on the alarm and threw the covers back, hauling myself out of bed. I went right to the bathroom, doing this again thinking I needed cats. Another presence in the house. Someone to talk to. Someone to take care of. Someone to love.

Sure, feeding them would add time to my morning routine but to have all that, to cut through the loneliness I’d been denying was weighing on me, I’d do it.

I scratched searching for kittens on my mental list of things to add to my physical list written on a pad on my desk in my studio as I did my preliminary bathroom business and walked out to put coffee on.

I did this thinking about my desk and the time it had taken to right everything after Logan left the day before.

I told myself it was annoying, especially since he’d destroyed my weekly delivery of flowers, got water everywhere, decimated several blooms, thus it took more time to clean up and the arrangement looked like crap after I put it back together and I was good with flowers.

But it wasn’t annoying.

It was hot.

God, I was crazy.

No, I was fucked up.

And I was fucking myself up, letting this go on when I was supposed to be sorting myself out.

I sighed as I moved to the end of my kitchen counter that delineated the living room from the kitchen.

It was then I felt it.

No, I felt him.

I stopped dead, my head came up, and I stared at Logan leaning against the counter by the sink, mug of coffee in his hand, his Chaos cut thrown on the marble beside him, wearing his uniform of jeans, motorcycle boots, and black thermal Henley, looking gorgeous.

“Mornin’,” he greeted casually, then lifted the mug and took a sip.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked.

“Nope,” he answered after lowering the mug.

I looked to the back door, then to him. “You broke in?”

“Yup.”

He broke in.

To my house!

I didn’t have time for this.

Further, it was time to end this.

Now.

Intent on doing just that, I tossed my hair, feeling the loose bunch of it wrapped around a ponytail holder at the top back of my head wobble around and Logan’s eyes went to it.

I felt my thighs start tingling.

Damn it!

“You need to leave,” I informed him.

He looked from my hair down my body, then back up to my eyes.

His were grinning when he noted, “Nice jammies,” before he took another sip of coffee, his gaze never leaving mine.

Rough, edgy, biker, bad boy, hot guy Logan “High” Judd saying the word jammies was both hilarious and a total turn-on.

Though he was right. They were nice jammies. Petal pink with ivory lace, another cami and pants that were so awesome, they should be illegal. This pair had lace edging the hem and sides of the pants—sides that were cut in overlapping slits all the way to my upper hips.

Sometimes I got tangled in them when I was sleeping, but they looked crazy-awesome on, especially when I was walking around, so I put up with the tangling.

I’d never had anyone to appreciate them.

Until now.

And Logan’s appreciation worked, as it always did.

However, I told myself firmly, I would be happy with just my own appreciation.

And maybe the detached, feline approval of a Burmese cat.

Perhaps a Persian.

Yes, a Persian. A Persian would go better with my house.

I tore my thoughts off Persian cats and focused again on Logan, repeating, “You need to leave.”

He didn’t leave.

He stayed right where he was, lounging against my kitchen counter like he did it every morning, and asked, “What’s the gig with your house?”

Even though I didn’t quite understand his question, I did know he wasn’t going to catch me in this again.

“Please leave,” I requested politely.

He ignored me and threw out his hand holding the coffee mug toward my kitchen/living room.

“Babe, this place looks nice, but it’s not you.”

“It’s one hundred percent me,” I retorted, doing it wanting to kick myself because I should not engage. I should instead ask him to leave (again).

I knew this to be even more true when he took in the length of me again before catching my eyes.

“New you, that getup, this house,” he muttered. “Old you, I got my dick inside you.”

That did it, the dirty talk that was not all about dirty talk, the good kind that was sweet and fun and had one objective that was also sweet but mostly it was fun. Instead, it was dirty talk that was only partly the good kind but not intentionally so. Mostly it was meant to wound by taking more than it was giving and leaving bruises with the blows.

Therefore I stomped to the island, put my hands on it, and didn’t share I had a busy day and I needed to prepare for it because he’d proved yesterday he didn’t care about that, which was another indication he didn’t care, at all, about me.

Instead I stated, “I’m not doing this again. This is over, this game we’re playing. You need to leave. And I’m being serious, High.”

Humor lit his brown eyes when he returned, “You’re bein’ serious?”

I tried to tamp down my annoyance, something else that didn’t work, in fact, the effort only fanned the flames, and I replied, “Very.”

He lost none of his humor and actually looked more amused when he rejoined, “You’re cute when you’re very serious. ’Specially bein’ very serious in those jammies.”

I stared at him as panic hit me.

He was changing the game and the way he was changing it this time, teasing me like that, I knew I was going to lose.

And if I lost to that, I’d lose it all.

Again.

Oh yes.

Panic.

And staring into his playful eyes, that panic went extreme.

“Please leave,” I whispered.

He heard my tone, maybe read my panic, the amusement fled and he got serious and I knew it was deadly serious even though he didn’t move a muscle.

“What’s the gig with your pad, Millie?” he whispered back.

“It’s my home,” I answered, hoping an answer might get him moving on. “It’s how I like it. I worked hard on it. It’s perfect. Now, I answered you. Will you please go?”

“It’s not you,” he told me.

“It’s all me,” I told him.

“It’s not the you I know.”

“You knew me twenty years ago, Logan,” I reminded him. “Things have changed.”

“Yeah they have,” he readily agreed.

I leaned into my hands on the counter, my body tipping his way, my hope that he’d read that body language and see my sincerity.

“While we’re like this, not angry, not being stupid and crazy, I hope you’ll listen to me,” I began. “I need you to leave, Logan. I need it. This isn’t healthy. Not for either of us. We have to stop.”

“Crate’s gone,” he shared, and my head twitched in confusion when he did.

“Crate?” I asked.

“Photos of us,” he told me.

He’d searched my house.

Not a surprise.

Invasive and annoying but with no rules to this game, not a surprise.

“I took it out to the Dumpster,” I told him.

And I had in a moment of fury.

The garbage men didn’t come until the next day. I still had time to go out and drag it back in.

I was fighting the urge and hated the fact that part of me knew I’d lose that fight. But that crate totally would be back inside, tucked in my closet by day’s end no matter how busy I was.

“Crate’s gone,” he repeated, and when I started to say something, he went on, “Someone took it.”

I snapped my mouth shut against a pain that felt like someone had punched me in the throat.

“Rode around your house,” he told me. “Saw it yesterday afternoon by the Dumpster. It’s gone now.”

Oh God.

It was a nice crate. They didn’t cost a fortune but they also didn’t cost pennies.

And crates like that were useful for a variety of things.

I could see someone taking it. I hadn’t thought about it when I’d dragged it out there and set it beside the Dumpster, not too puny or lazy to throw it in, just knowing I’d never dig it out if I actually did that, so I’d set it by the side because I knew I was weak and I’d be back for it. Still, I was making a statement to myself even if I knew it was lame and I’d take it back.

“It’s gone?” I asked, my voice husky.

“Nice crate, you dumped it, someone can use it. They’ll do that and to do that, they’ll dump the pictures.”

Oh God, that hurt.

God, it killed.

Why had I taken it out to the Dumpster?

Why?

“Threw us away, Millie,” he told me conversationally, then took a sip of coffee, his gaze still on me. When he was done swallowing, he continued. “My count, this is twice.”

That blow was so true, it caved in my throat and I had to fight for breath.

I struggled past the pain, dragged in air, and begged, “Please don’t do this. Just let it go and then go. If not for me, for you, High. This isn’t healthy for either of us.”

“Man’s gotta get off and works for me I do that with a guaranteed good lay. Seems healthy to me, and when I’m buried deep, definitely feels healthy.”

I didn’t hide my wince and he didn’t show he cared even minutely that he’d caused it.

In fact, he didn’t show that he cared much any time I made it clear he’d wounded me.

No, he didn’t care at all.

He was playing with me to cause hurt to get back at me for what I’d done.