The Obsessed With Him Series: Complete Box Set (A Bad Boy Romance) (9 page)

I shook my head. “No.” His eyes darkened, so I quickly added, “But I want to. With you.”

Colt sighed and then moved off of me, so that he was standing next to the chair. He picked his shirt up from where he’d thrown it on the floor and began putting it back on.

The mood in the room, which had been charged with electricity, sexy and full of heat, had turned cold and tense.

I sat up in the chair and tied the front of my uniform back together, then pushed my skirt down.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Was it something I did?” I hated the way my voice sounded, hated that I was asking him if I’d done anything wrong. But I needed to know. Now that I’d let myself want him, even if it was just for a moment, I wanted to know why he was rejecting me.

“No,” Colt said, his tone clipped and hard. “This was a mistake.” He finished putting his shirt on and then walked out of the room, leaving me there, by myself, embarrassed and wondering what happened.

I sat there for a moment, watching the door, thinking surely he would come back, that he’d ask if I was okay, that he’d apologize for just running out on me. But after a moment, it became clear he wasn’t going to.

Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked rapidly, trying to keep them from spilling down my cheeks. But it was no use. Disappointment and regret washed over me in a tsunami, a wave so great it was too much to bear.

The rejection stung, but there was also the knowledge that I’d broken my promise to Declan. I’d kissed Colt, I’d let him put his hands all over my body, I would have slept with him if he’d wanted to.

Just like that, in one moment, it was over.

Promise broken.

There was no going back.

Tears spilled down my cheeks, but I wasn’t sobbing. In fact, I was kind of having a hard time breathing. I tried to stand up, but the room spun, so I sat back down and put my head between my legs until I stopped feeling so dizzy.

And then I reached for my bag, and the only thing that could make me feel better.

As soon as the razor was in my hand, I felt calmer. I held the blade against my arm and pushed it into my skin, soft and slow at first until I felt just the tiniest sting.Then I pushed it deeper into my flesh, the pain more intense this time. I went even deeper, the blood turning from a thin pink line into a thick red one, sliding down my arm until one of the drops hit the floor.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t care if I got blood all over this stupid club.

I moved the blade up my arm, pushing it even deeper into my skin. I began to feel high, the kind of high you got from a certain kind of pain, the kind of pain that made you feel like you were floating up and out of your body.

I pushed the razor deeper, dragging it up my arm, further than I’d ever dragged it before, enjoying the look of the long, jagged cut that resulted.

Two more drops of blood feel onto the carpet, and then three more. They were coming fast now, drip drip drip, and something about it was slightly alarming. I’d never bled that much before. I looked around for something to clean it up with, but there was nothing.

Finally, I grabbed a couple of napkins off the bar in the corner and pushed them against my wound.

But the napkins were soaked in no time.

I pulled them off, finally coming down from my high, ready to survey the damage. And when I saw it, I gasped.

The cuts were deep, gashes really, my flesh gaping open on the sides of each cut. Blood was pouring out of the wounds, and they were starting to hurt now, really hurt, and not in a good way.

I went to move toward the door, to get out of there and call for help, but when I turned around, the floor felt like it was moving underneath me. I was dizzy, and I reached out and grabbed at one of the chairs, using it to steady myself. But my legs were wobbly, like I was walking on two strands of spaghetti, and next thing I knew, they were giving way.

I feel to the floor, panic rising in my chest.

The room started to slip away.

And then everything went black.

T
he next thing I knew
, Colt was calling my name, pulling me back from the blackness that had briefly pulled me under.

“Olivia,” he demanded. “Fuck, Olivia, what the hell happened?”

He pulled me into a sitting position from where I was slumped over on the floor and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Look at me,” he said. “What happened? Who did this to you?” He turned my arm over in his hand and looked at my wrists, his eyes widening when he realized I’d done it to myself. “Christ, Olivia.”

He reached behind him and pulled his shirt off, wrapping it around my wrists in an effort to stop the bleeding

My breathing was being to return to its normal rhythm as the initial shock of seeing all the blood began to fade.

“Stay here,” Colt commanded. “Stay here and do not move.”

I nodded, too weak to argue.

He returned a second later with a first aid kit and a bottle of water. He opened the first aid kit and then raised my hands up over my head, holding the fabric of his shirt against my wrists tightly, applying pressure to my cuts.

“Do I need stitches?” I asked.

“Depends on if I can stop the bleeding.”

I nodded. Everything inside of me was screaming to push him away, to tell him to leave me alone, that I didn’t need his help. I was angry with him, angry with him for kissing me, for causing me to lose my mind, to be driven almost insane with lust for him.

I would have let him fuck me, right here in this room.

But he’d rejected me.

He didn’t want me.

I’d broken my promise to Declan, a promise I’d kept all these years, for a man who couldn’t have given two shits about me.

Fuck Colt,
I thought. As soon as I was feeling better, I was out of here.

Those dark eyes were locked on mine as he held my wrists so tight I couldn’t move, the tension between us crackling so intensely I could almost see it, like a taut electric wire joining us together.

I hate you,
I chanted to myself, begging my brain to accept it as truth.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

After a few more minutes, Colt pulled my arms down and began unwrapping his shirt from around my wrists.

I winced when I saw what I’d done to myself. Marks crisscrossed my arms like chicken scratches. I would have scars. Not like the ones I already had, either. Bad ones. Ones I might not be able to hide.

The wounds were still leaking blood, but it had slowed considerably.

Colt reached into the first aid kit and grabbed an antiseptic wipe, ripping it open with his teeth.

“This is going to sting,” he said, no trace of sympathy or regret in his voice, just a warning that what was about to happen was going to hurt. But even though the tone in his voice was devoid of emotion, he was gentle as he began carefully cleaning my wounds.

“Do I need to go to the hospital?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer. Hospitals meant questions. They meant filling out paperwork with spaces for addresses and names of next of kin. Hospitals meant doctors who wanted to send you to talk to social workers, stays in psych wards, and huge bills I would never be able to pay.

And that didn’t even include the actual medical part of the whole thing, which meant needles and stitches and shots and monitors.

“No,” Colt said. “I can fix it with a butterfly stitch.”

“What’s a butterfly stitch?” I asked, slightly panicked. I went to pull my arms away from him, but he held my wrists tight.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s just a special kind of band-aid.”

“Oh.” I watched as he finished with the antiseptic and began unwrapping a band-aid. It looked like a normal band-aid except the two sides were held together by some kind of elastic. He placed one horizontally over one of my cuts, and the skin tightened around my wound.

It was slightly uncomfortable, and I winced and averted my gaze. Once I stopped looking, I instantly started to feel better. My stomach stopped churning. My head stopped feeling so light. I didn’t know if it was because the bleeding had stopped, or because I’d been getting woozy looking at what I’d done to myself.

“I think I passed out,” I said, before remembering Colt didn’t deserve to know anything about what had happened to me.

He didn’t say anything.

I glanced up at him.

I wanted my eyes to be trained on something other than my wounds, but the last place I wanted my gaze to land was on him.

But I couldn’t stop.

It was like he was pulling me toward him with some kind of invisible force.

His forehead was knotted in concentration, and he bit his bottom lip just a tiny bit as he continued placing the bandages on my skin.

His eyes were dark, his displeasure with me written all over his face.

When he was done with the butterfly band-aids, he reached for a roll of gauze and wrapped it around my wrists, fastening each side together with medical tape.

Once he’d placed the last piece of tape, he put everything back in the first aid kit and then he stood up.

“Can you stand up?” he asked, holding his hand out to me.

“I think so.”

His hand wrapped around mine, and I instantly became woozy again. Not from the blood loss or the cutting, but from Colt’s touch. I hated the effect he was having on me, hated that he could make me feel this way.

He’d kissed me, touched me, pushed me beyond anything I’d ever felt, beyond anything I’d ever even imagined I could feel for anyone besides Declan. And it made me both attracted to him and furious with him at the same time.

A rush of heat overtook me as I remembered what it had felt like, Colt’s tongue in my mouth, his hands on my body, the scent of his cologne, the faint taste of alcohol on his breath, how badly I’d wanted him inside of me.

I couldn’t help it. I wanted him to kiss me again.

And for one incredible moment, as I stood there facing him, his eyes searching mine, I was sure he was going to, was sure he was going to pull me toward him and crash his mouth into mine.

But instead, he shook his head.

“You’re done.”

“What?”

“That’s it. It’s over.”

“What’s over?”

“This.” He turned my hands over in his, looking at the bandages he’d just placed on me. His face softened, and I saw something in his eyes. Fear? Concern? I couldn’t be sure. “You’re not doing this anymore.” The soft look was gone from Colt’s face, and now all that was there was a steely determination.

“I’m not cutting myself anymore?” I repeated incredulously, and then laughed.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.” He picked up my bag, rummaged through it until he found my razors, then slid them into his back pocket. He hoisted himself up until he was sitting on the side of the desk, his legs dangling over the side. “That’s over, Olivia. I’m not fucking around.”

“You do realize that it’s not that easy, right?”

“It is.” He looked at me again, and a shiver ran up my spine. “You will not cut yourself again. Do you understand?”

Something about his tone, about how commanding he was being with me, made butterflies swarm my stomach. I thought about how he’d dressed me in my tiny little outfit, how he’d held my hands down at my sides and let his eyes rake up my body.

“You’re not in charge of me,” I said defiantly, raising my chin in the air, daring him to contradict me.

“Oh, I sure as hell am,” he said. He stood up and crossed the room to the bar in the corner, poured himself a drink and took a long gulp. He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe he was being forced to deal with me.

“No, you’re not,” I said.

“Jesus, Olivia, you sound like a child.”

“I
sound like a child?” I said. “You’re the one you ran out of here when you found out I was a virgin. Talk about childish and immature.”

His hand tightened around the glass he was holding and I saw something akin to fury blazing in his eyes. But what did he think? That I was just not going to bring it up? Now that my immediate medical concerns had been taken care of, I was pissed.

How dare he send me such horribly mixed signals? He’d dressed me up in this skimpy outfit, he’d made it perfectly clear that he liked what he saw, and then he started kissing me, touching me, making me crazy with want for him.

And then once I decided to give him what he wanted, he stopped. Just because I was virgin? Talk about fucked up.

“I did you a favor,” Colt said. He took another long pull of his drink, draining the glass. “You don’t want your first time to be with me. Trust me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you just don’t.” He closed his eyes tight, and bent over the bar, resting his hands on the side as he hung his head for a moment. His broad shoulders looked tensed and knotted, and I had to resist the urge to go over there and comfort him.

I thought about what I’d seen in the office earlier, how I’d heard him fighting with his uncle, how Colt had slammed his hands against the desk. He looked like a lost kid now, instead of the sexy, confident man who’d held my hips earlier while I’d danced for him, telling me how to move, how to undress for him.

I took a step toward him, no longer able to keep myself from trying to provide some comfort to him the way he’d just done for me.

But before I could, Colt turned around.

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re done as a cocktail waitress.”

“So you said.” I tipped my chin in the air. “I want to be paid for my time.” It was only fair. I’d worked here for the night, I should get the money that was due to me. I wondered how much it could be. A hundred bucks? A hundred bucks could last me a while. A hundred bucks was enough for a food and a few nights in a cheap motel until I could figure out what to do next.

“No.”

“No?” I blinked at him in disbelief. “That’s illegal.”

“You’ll get paid at the end of the week, for the week.”

I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ll be my secretary.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you working here as a waitress. It’s too dangerous. You can work in the office with me. I need someone to help with the paperwork.”

“No.” I shook my head. I didn’t need his pity. I didn’t need some stupid job he’d just invented. Paperwork! What did he think I was, some kind of accountant?

“Yes,” Cold said, undeterred by my protests. “You’ll stay with me. At my apartment. When you have enough money saved, we’ll talk about you getting your own place.”

My eyes widened. “We’ll
talk
about me getting my own place?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“Until I can make sure you’re safe, you are.”

“Why?” I asked. “Why are you so determined to make decisions for me?”

He crossed the room in two long strides. He took my hands in his and turned my wrists over, running his fingers over the bandages. “Because I’ve never been so scared in my life as when I saw you lying here on the floor. And because for some strange, fucked up reason, I can’t seem to stay away from you. I have the need to protect you.”

Emotion flooded my chest, and I forced myself not to look at him. I knew if I looked at him, I wouldn’t be able to say no. And I had to say no. I had to. Because if I didn’t, I was afraid of what would happen.

“Olivia,” he breathed. “Olivia, look at me.”

I was powerless. I raised my eyes from the floor, and he reached out and smoothed my hair from my forehead.

He leaned his forehead against mine, and our lips were just millimeters from touching again.

“Say yes,” he whispered, and I could hear the desperation and want in his voice, how badly he wanted me to say yes to his plan.

“Yes,” I said, before I had a chance to think about it.

His lips tugged into a smile, just for half a second before setting back into a strong line.

I closed my eyes, because I couldn’t take it anymore, the two of us standing here so close, staring into each other’s eyes. It was intimate and confusing. How could I feel so deeply bonded to Colt when I’d just met him? Was this just lust, making me act crazy?

I felt his eyelashes brush against my cheeks as he closed his eyes too, and at that moment, someone in the club decided to turn up the music and the pounding bass line began echoing through the room, pumped in through the wireless speaker system.

The sound was jarring, but neither of us moved.

Kiss me,
I thought.
Please, kiss me and finish what you started.

I wanted his hands all over me, on my ass, my back, my breasts. I wanted his mouth between my legs, his fingers inside of me there, too. I wanted to feel his hard cock push into my mouth, wanted to know what it felt like to taste a man’s dick.

The rhythm of the music intensified, the tempo like a beating heart. I placed my palm against Colt’s muscular chest, feeling his real heart beat, slow and strong.

He did the same to me, and my breath caught in my chest at the feel of his hand against my breast.

We were locked together, the music swirling around us into a tornado.

Kiss me,
I screamed inside.
Kiss me.

I tilted my head just the tiniest bit, until my lips barely brushed his. It wasn’t a kiss – in fact, it was far from it. I’d hardly even felt the soft pillows of his lips against mine before he pulled back, almost as if he’d been burned.

“Olivia…” Colt started, taking my hand off his chest and holding it in his. But I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to hear why he was wrong for me, why we couldn’t do this, why it was a bad idea. Because one of the things I’d learned over the years was that when someone had all kind of justifications and excuses for why they couldn’t do something, it was usually just window-dressing. Because the thing was, it usually just came down to one simple fact. People did what they wanted to do.

Colt didn’t want me.

The urge to cut welled inside of me again.

God, you are fucked up, Olivia. You’ve already destroyed your wrists, and now you want to hurt yourself move? Over what? Some asshole who doesn’t even want you? Haven’t you learned enough about investing your emotions in people who could care less about you?