We step out from the elevator and Tyler digs in his pocket for his key. He unlocks his apartment and pulls me inside. Quicker than I can comprehend it, he slams the door, locks it, and pins me against it.
I take a deep breath, making my chest heave. He doesn’t touch me. His forearms rest against the door on either side of my head and his hips hover just above mine. I still feel him—everywhere. His breath fanning across my lips. His thumbs flirting with my hair. His thigh brushing mine as he steps forward.
“You’re not the only one hiding things, Liv. You’re not the only one who thinks they’re unable to hold down something for more than one night.” He breathes the words over my mouth, his lips millimeters from mine. “I want to understand you. I want to know why you’re pushing me away when it’s not really what you want.”
I blink at him. “What if I want to know yours, too?”
Tyler dips his head and kisses the tender spot below my ear. “I’ll tell you mine if you promise to tell me yours,” he whispers.
“You first?”
He nods, pulling his head back, and looks at me. “You promise?”
“I promise,” I say on an exhale.
He pushes off the door and waves a hand over his shoulder for me to follow.
This whole conversation feels like something out of elementary school. Bargaining for what you want. Bribing. Promises.
Except, this time, the stakes are higher.
“Sit. Drink?” He pulls open his large fridge.
“Water, please. Driving,” I remind him when he glances at me.
“One glass won’t hurt you, Liv. And if you really don’t want to drive, I’ll call a car to take you home and bring you back in the morning to get your car.”
“I—”
“Love to fight me on every little f**king thing,” he finishes with a smirk. He hands me the wine, grabs a beer, and ushers me into his front room.
The brown, leather sofa curves around the corner of the room, and the glass coffee table in front of it has more than one mark on it. My lips quirk at the thought of him spilling something on it and wiping it with his hand, leaving the smears on the surface. There’s even an empty cookie bag on the table.
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“So I need to tidy a little. I wasn’t expecting company.” He takes my glass and sets it on the table. “Sit down.”
I ease myself down onto the plush sofa, but apparently I’m moving too slowly, because he grabs my waist and pulls me back. I shriek, clapping my hand over my mouth as I fall back onto the sofa. Tyler laughs, one of his arms still around me. I elbow him and smack his chest at the same time.
“You ass**le.”
He grins. “It loosened you up, didn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I admit, pulling my legs up to my chest. “It did.”
“So.”
“So you said you’d go first. Tell me your secret, Tyler Stone.”
“I’m a sex addict.”
10
A sex addict?
Another addictive personality? Oh, f**king shit. Just when I thought this situation couldn’t get worse, he admits that. And not just any addictive personality—one addicted to a physical act.
This cements in my mind that I can’t see him. How can I? He’s addicted to sex. I’m addicted to love. What a f**king hoo-haa.
I push away from him on the sofa, but this time, he doesn’t grab me back. He keeps his eyes on mine and talks.
“I’m aware of it, and I accept it. It’s not a problem for me—mostly. The problem isn’t the addiction. It’s what I want from sex. I want more than what one-night stands can give me, and I don’t mean a relationship. I want someone who’s not bothered about committing anything other than her body. I want—need—someone who can open herself to me and accept what I want. That I need more than just vanilla.”
“Is that… Is that why you said what you said to me?” I swallow.
He nods. “You’re fiery, Liv. I don’t believe you’re happy with good, old vanilla sex. At least not all the time.”
My dream flashes in my mind again. He’s right—if I were, I wouldn’t be dreaming of him tying me to my bedpost with a scarf while he goes down on me. I wouldn’t be dreaming of being blindfolded on my knees while I wrap my lips around his cock.
I reach out and grab the wine. My clit throbs at my thoughts. I take a long drink from the glass, somehow emptying it, and run my fingers through my hair.
“You’d be right,” I say, my throat like sandpaper despite the wine. “But that’s not the problem.” I stand, walking over to the window. I push aside the dark curtain and stare out at the city.
“Then tell me what it is, babe. I’m f**ked if you don’t. There’s nothing I can do.” He comes up behind me and rests his hands on the windowsill, blocking me in. “I told you. Now it’s your turn.”
I push his arm away and spin out of his grasp, once again running my fingers through my hair as I struggle to put the words together in a sentence that’s oh so simple.
“What is the problem, Liv?”
I stop and close my eyes. “You’re addicted to sex”—I open them again—“and I’m addicted to love.”
He stops. Freezes. His eyes widen a tiny amount. Enough that I notice it.
“I’m addicted to love and people. I get addicted to the sounds of people’s voices and the touches of their hands. I get addicted to their habits, their quirks. I am in love with love.”
“How is that possible?”
I shrug. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be addicted to it, would I? But that’s it. That’s why I sent the text. Because I cannot get addicted again. Not to someone like you,” I whisper. “You’re too dangerous. You’re too tempting for me.”
“What if I’m willing to take the risk? What if my addiction to sex is more an addiction to sex with you than sex in general?”
“It’s not your risk to take!” My voice rises a few decibels. “It’s not your mind or your heart it f**ks with. It’s mine, and I’m the one who has to take the fallout. I did it once before. I won’t do it again. I can’t. I can’t take that risk, no matter how much I want to. With you.”
He strides across the room and cups my face. He presses his lips to mine in a heated kiss that swirls my insides. I grip his sweater, holding myself to him despite knowing that it’s wrong.