75
I snap my head at him, shocked. He’s gripping the wheel aggressively and staring straight ahead, taking a calming breath. I notice he’s swerved us into the side of the road, out of the nonexistent traffic. He unbuckles, gets out of the car, and stalks off toward the other side of the road overlooking the vast drop-off over the cliff edge. Every muscle in his body is tight and flinching with rage.
What the actual hell? Where did this even come from? What should I do?
I’ve never actually been the focus of this version of angry Jake, not like this, not with this kind of rage. I feel sick, unbearably emotional, and I reel it back in, taking deep, heavy breaths, trying to still my hands, and not letting him get to me while my stomach ties itself in knots.
He comes back to the car and slides in stiffly; he’s making me jumpy and nervy. He’s not looking at me, and he doesn’t put his belt back on. I don’t know what to say. Angry, aggressive men as big as Jake are my worst nightmare.
Why is he reacting this way?
I’ve no clue what goes on in his head sometimes, and I watch him warily, every nerve ending in my body on high alert.
“It’s not about sex, Emma.” He’s quiet and reflective, and his hands move back to the wheel, but he doesn’t start the car. “It’s about this eternal need in you to stay in full control, never letting anyone in, never letting yourself enjoy anything, and never letting your guard down. Always keeping me at arm’s length.” His voice is gruff and edgy with an undertone of aggression.
“That’s not true.” I do enjoy things in my life; he has no idea. And he’s the closest person to me in the world.
“Really? Emma, I’ve been with you for months now; I’ve seen just about every version of you there is, tired, grumpy, bossy, happy, PMS-ing like fuck.” He’s calmer, but his voice is still strained with that edge to his tone. I sit stiffly, focusing on his hands gripping and un-gripping the steering wheel as he talks. His body language speaks volumes about his inner hostility. “I’ve seen you vulnerable only briefly.” He flicks his eyes at me, and I spin away, hating that he’s even seen it. “I get it, Emma; you’re strong. You want everyone to see that. You don’t need anyone. But it’s not who you are. And it’s not true.” It’s almost an accusation.
“Yes, it is! Do you ever think that maybe you overthink it and try to see stuff that isn’t there?” I spit angrily. I hate him analyzing me, trying to make out that I don’t know myself inside and out. He has no clue what goes on inside of my head.
“I think I know you better than most people.”
I think of my mom and Sarah and push both images away. I don’t think I’ve cried in front of either of them since I went through puberty. He’s right; he does know me better, but it doesn’t mean he knows all of me.
“What if I don’t know how else to be, Jake?” I turn to him in frustration at his know-it-all ideas. “You keep pushing, telling me to let go, and what if I can’t? What if this is me? This is all I know. I’m not capable of doing it any other way, or needing other people, because I don’t know how.” I’m yelling at him. Why am I shouting?
Because he’s hit a nerve, and it hurts, and I hate him for it, hate him for stripping me bare. I don’t get a second of warning before he bridges the gap between us, instantly molding his mouth to mine, completely unexpected.
His lips are warm and soft, swiftly pushing mine apart. His tongue is in my mouth, caressing, and it feels like heaven, instantly crushing my defenses and melting my armor. His hands bury under the layers of my loose hair, and I kiss him back, tangling my fingers in the collar of his shirt so I can pull him closer, instinct taking over. Breathing heavily, I’m getting lost in the sensation of his touch, his sensual mouth, which does amazing things to my very soul. We moan lightly as the kiss deepens, my stomach lurching with desire, and I almost let go.
My head reels around full circle as though trying to slap some sense into me, and somehow I mentally recoil.
I can’t do this; I can’t.
Yet I can’t stop. It’s addictive as he’s pulling me tight, and I’ve no defenses. He unclips my seatbelt, and it slides loose; I’m against him, his arm around my waist pulling me hard into his body over the central controls, any awkwardness of the car’s confined space ignored.
I fear he will drag me onto his lap, and then what?
What if we cross the line and I start to feel more for him? I don’t think I can trust him not to hurt me; it’s what he does: sex and casual affairs, meaningless hookups. I’m just a challenge to him, a new toy that holds his interest because I’ve been evasive, and once he has me, what then? This will change everything; this could ruin my career, life, mental state, and relationship.
I can’t. I just can’t.
I start recoiling from him, the passion in me burning out, replaced with genuine fear, suffocating terror. My hands sagging, I start pushing against him. He feels the change in me and lets me go coldly, without real hesitation. We inhale heavily as he harshly sits back in his seat, glaring at me.
“That’s exactly what I mean.” His voice is cold and angry. Rage brews in the depths of his green eyes. Tapping my temple with his finger, he says, “This is your biggest enemy, Emma, not me.”
“Why did you do that?” I spit, my body still reeling and out of whack from the assault on my senses, lungs struggling to self-regulate, my lips on fire from his kiss. I am in free fall.
“To prove a point,” he snarls and turns away coldly.
“What point?” I almost cry at him. I’m so overwrought with emotions, so confused. He scrubs his hands through his ruffled hair and exhales; for a moment, I think he’s going to jump out of the car again and walk off, but he just sits and sighs, grasping the wheel, pulling himself up to sit properly.
“What does it matter?” His voice is deflated, and he avoids looking at me, his aggression evaporating.
So? What? He’s decided, screw it, we’re not talking anymore?
How can he assault me with a kiss and then just say forget it? What the hell?
I’m angry. I’m really goddamn, seething angry.
How dare he!
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