Colson pauses, and when I raise my eyes, the corner of his mouth curls.
Why do you provoke him? Why do you even engage? It only makes things worse.
But I can’t help it, fighting him is the addiction, the agonizing itch that needs to be scratched. When he rolls closer to me, I plan to spit out some snarky admonishment, but nothing happens. Instead, I stand motionless as his hands move further up my legs until my skirt hangs in the crook of his elbows. I draw in a deep breath as his fingertips slide up the backs of my thighs, hitting the edge of the desk.
Colson peers up at me, “Do I make you uncomfortable, Brett?”
I clench my jaw, “Goddamnit, Colson, of course you make me uncomfortable.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Why?”
I lean down, my face just inches from his, “Because I have a whole other life now. I haven’t seen you in three—four years now and all of a sudden you show up at my office and you work here and you carry a gun and you keep doing things to freak me out and I don’t know why you can’t just move on and be normal. I can’t just pick up where we left off because you woke up in Canada one day and suddenly decided you couldn’t let it go!” I suck in a lungful of air, having gone on far longer than I planned.
“But this is our normal,” he replies, utterly unfazed.
Colson rises from my chair, his array of deadly implements brushing against my chest, “Leave,” he nods over my shoulder to the door.
But I don’t move, I stay planted firmly in front of the desk, “No,” I say, looking him dead in the eye.
I continue staring up at him in silence until I feel a series of soft scratches against the outsides of my thighs. And when I look down, I see Colson’s fingers drawing my skirt up my legs, one inch at a time.
“I have to tell you,” he says with a hint of amusement, “some might consider it toxic that you admit that I make you uncomfortable, but refuse to leave when I give you the opportunity.”
At that, Colson wraps one arm around my waist and lifts me slightly to slide the fabric free from beneath my legs. But when he brushes over the abrasion low on my hip, still sensitive even after a week, I wince in pain. He stills, glancing between my face and my hip, before raising my skirt.
The subtle change in his demeanor isn’t lost on me when he sees the bruise, its scabbed focal point radiating with dark purple that fades to green and then to light brown. At least the flecks of neon orange are gone…
“What happened to you?” Colson murmurs, not taking his eyes off my wound.
“Jealous?” I clip, “Are you mad there’s not enough room for yours?”
I hope he sees every mark Bowen left on me. He’ll see the rest of the scabbed over streaks peppering my shins and ankles soon enough. I hope it fucks with his head, because he sure as hell loves fucking with mine.
But Colson doesn’t seem to register my tone. He’s concentrating too hard on my body, and his mind is elsewhere. When he catches sight of the other bruising, he gently pulls my grey top up to look at that one, just as ugly as the one below it.
“Where’d you get these?”
My eyes wander across the floor, considering my response. If anyone else asked the same question, I’d probably lie—because of course. But, with Colson, the more uncomfortable I can make it for him, the better. He sounds concerned, so why should I disappoint him?
“A paintball gun,” I deadpan.
Colson’s silence is deafening, and he stares down at me with such intensity that it takes all I have not to look away.
“Were you playing?” his baritone voice has a razor’s edge.
This time, I do look away, then flinch when I feel his index and middle fingers on my jaw, whipping my face around to look at him. I stare up at him for a few moments, my chest rising and falling with each tense breath.
My jaw tightens, “Define playing.”
Now, Colson looks different. This is the first time he’s ever looked…bothered.
And I love it. The mere possibility that I can make him uncomfortable even in the slightest bit fills me with a diseased sense of satisfaction.
His eyes linger on mine before moving down to my hip again, and then to my legs. Just as I predicted, his eyes are immediately drawn to the nicks across my ankles and shins and the long, dotted scratches in various stages of healing. He takes a step back and sinks down into my chair, sweeping up one of my legs behind the knee. I drop my hands to the edge of the desk, holding myself steady as he props the sole of my sandal on his lap and runs his thumb over the scabs, surveying my marred skin.
His intense concentration and the heavy, steady tempo of his breaths tells me he already has some idea of what happened. I all but confirm it just by meeting his eyes after he takes in each scrape and laceration.
Finally, Colson lowers my leg and, after a few moments, looks up, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth, “I’m sorry.”
I just stare at him, my mind gone blank, “What for?” I finally respond in a near whisper.
He rises from the chair and brings his hands to my neck, cupping my face. I remain motionless, and let him lower his forehead to mine. His hair brushes my brow and I squeeze the edge of the desk as soon as I smell its sweet, biting fragrance.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to come back to you.”
I don’t know why he’s suddenly apologetic about anything, but I’m getting intense satisfaction from hearing it. I should shove him away, rebuff his apologies that are probably lies anyway, and disappear for another week out of spite. But I don’t, because I get curious.
With apprehension, I reach up and run my fingers along Colson’s scalp, through his deep auburn hair. He takes a sharp breath and I feel his muscles tense ever so slightly when he feels my touch. I give in to temptation and inhale his scent. As soon as it hits my nose, it shatters against my brain and sets off a barrage of memories while a familiar sensation starts creeping into my bones.
I still want him to notice me, to want me, to fixate on me…now, I want to know every thought he’s ever had about me. I hope he has been thinking about me, consumed by me, waiting all these years to find me. It’s absolutely absurd. What drove me to panic is now driving me wild.
“Are you sorry for all this bullshit you’ve put me through since you got here?” I murmur up at him.
Colson stills for a moment and then leans forward until I have to brace myself to keep from falling onto the desk. One hand snakes around the back of my neck while the other squeezes my throat in the crook of his thumb.
His blue eyes go dark as he holds me enraptured beneath him, “I will never apologize for being close to you,” he growls, “I’ll be a slave for you, I’ll kill for you, I’ll burn the world down around you, but if you want to get rid of me,” the corner of his mouth spasms with malice, “you’ll have to put a bullet between my eyes.”
All the air leaves my lungs and I’m so consumed by his overwhelming presence that I don’t even bother to contemplate what that really means. I should be fleeing in terror, but all I want is for him to come closer. I want to feel his heartbeat and his warmth pressed against me, but his body armor is in the way. I wish he’d take it off. But the rule-follower in me knows better. He can’t take it off, he won’t, and I wouldn’t, either. It keeps me at an infuriating distance, unless I want outlines of mace clips, magazines, and keys embedded in my skin.
