Sinclair

Chapter Fifteen: Selfish

THAT ONE WHISPERED WORD hangs in the air between us for a moment. The emotions in Sinclair's eyes are very clear when they present themselves. First, there is shock. His eyes widen the slightest bit and I can see right then and there that he had never expected me to call him the name that I gave him when I needed him inside of me so soon. Then, the shock fades and there is triumph. The one thing that Sinclair loves more than anything is when I call him "Sin," and to have just heard it slip from my stupid lips must give him cause to be proud of himself. The third and final emotion that he wears as the surprise and the triumph disappear is a look that makes my heart flutter and causes my stomach to tighten in anticipation.

Lust.

Pure, raw, unadulterated lust. The kind I have seen in his eyes many times before I left. This time, though, it is different. It's wilder than I'm used to seeing like there is some kind of starving animal inside of him that has been pacing all this time and has now chosen its time to pounce.

Before I can backtrack, snatch my hand from his grasp and tell him that calling him by that name was a slip of the tongue, Sinclair has pounced on me. His lips move harshly yet seriously on mine and that's all that it takes for my willpower to crumble to dust. All the space I placed between us, all the walls I have built this last year are all knocked down right before my very eyes. One by one, the walls fall and I'm kissing him back, my hands gripping his arms, trying to pull him closer to me even though he's already as close as humanly possible. We're pressed up against each other, but it still doesn't feel close enough.

As our lips move in synchronization, he moves forward which causes me to move backward, and before I know it, I'm pressed up against the door of my car and one of his legs is resting between mine. One hand winds in my hair and tugs gently. His other hand moves down the length of my body until it reaches my knee. He effortlessly lifts it up and draws it around his waist, a low, aggressive moan sounding from deep within his throat.

Fireworks are set off in my stomach and soaring high into my brain, fuzzing out everything else. We are no longer in the parking lot of Carla's where anyone can drive up or walk out and see us. It seems like we are in some different place, someplace meant just for Sinclair and I. A place where no one can reach us.

I let my hands move from his biceps and move them to his chest, from there I move my hands downward and press them beneath his shirt, feeling the abs there with distinct pleasure. Sinclair gives a shiver and from our closeness, I can feel his breath catch a little before returning to unsteady pants.

He releases his hold on my mouth so that we can breathe, and instead moves to shower kisses along my neck. I let him, throwing my head back as I trail my hands upward underneath his shirt, feeling every ounce of muscle and thinking of how much I missed this. He shivers the entire time like my touch is violently electrocuting him. When I reach around and trail my fingernail gently down his spine the way he likes, he lets out another low, animalistic moan from deep within his throat. My entire body tingles at the sound and when he pulls at my hair—a little roughly but not rough enough to be painful—and tilts my head back, kissing the tops of my breasts and starting to rise up the material of the dress, I know exactly what's going to come.

He pulls back and gives me a look. His eyes look nearly black right now and he is breathing hard, a light blush coating his cheeks. The blush makes him look cute, innocent, but the expression he's giving me right now is anything but.

"Your keys, little goddess, give them to me."

I reach over, ready to hand him my keys when another car filled with women—more Iron Order groupies—comes barreling into the parking lot. This car is blasting some rock song I don't know and, as the girls get out of the car, they look at Sinclair and I with open envy.

I then realize how we look. My leg is wrapped around Sinclair's waist, my cardigan pulled down over my shoulders and the strap of my dress is completely torn. I don't remember when he did that but it makes me want to laugh at how incredibly Sinclair that is. You may have heard the expression "tearing each other's clothes off" but with Sinclair, that actually applied. He always ripped a lot of my favorite dresses and panties. All. The Time. I know that Sinclair has not taken his eyes off of me, even when the car pulled in, his gaze is focused singularly on me.

I would be lying if I didn't say that it felt good to be the only one Sinclair was looking at, the only one he was really seeing.

But the Iron Order groupies have offered me enough of a distraction to push Sinclair back slightly, not too much, just enough to put both of my feet on the ground and regain my composure. I kept both of my hands on his broad chest as I bent my head, breathing deeply to calm myself down.

"I can't, Sinclair," I whisper.

"So you say, but it certainly feels like you want to."

He's right, I do want to. But if I give in to this—if I give in to what I'm feeling right now—I can't help but imaging things ending horribly between us. How would they end? Would he grow bored of me and cheat? Would we just gradually grow apart? Would too much time, too many years, begin to lessen our connection?

All I would be left with is memories.

Like my mother.

I had watched how much pain that had caused her. I had seen the suffering on her face that she desperately tried to hide.

I couldn't let myself suffer like that.

I always wanted to remember my Sinclair the way that he was: mine. Only ever looking at me, only ever wanting me, never growing bored of me. If he stayed, he would grow bored, wouldn't he? If he stayed, his feelings for me would wither over time. I don't think I could stand that. Even when we were apart, I knew he was thinking fondly of me. I knew that he looked at the year we spent together and he would smile to himself, thinking he didn't regret any of it. But if we dated and he decided he didn't like me as much as he thought, those memories would never be the same. They would never be fond again. They would be changed with the new emotions he felt for me: annoyance, a bland disregard, maybe a little hatred, the way most people thought of their exes.

I knew I was being selfish. I knew that it was more for me than it was for him. This was all because I couldn't bear to have him look at me one day and realize he could do better. Feelings changed all the time. One day someone loved you and then before you can blink, they leave you on your own. They leave you behind. Your memories of them are bittersweet and their memories of you become nonexistent.

I couldn't stand to have Sinclair not think of me. I couldn't live if he forgot me.

"I'm sorry. I can't." I said, shaking my head as tears start to blur my eyes. "I can't, Sinclair. I can't. You can do better, okay? You deserve better. I'm not...I'm not..." My voice starts to break and I can feel a sob coming on. "You deserve better than me. I can't...I'm broken, okay? I'm no good."

And before he can reply, I push away from him and jump into my car. I drive away from Carla's and I don't look in the review mirror because if I look, if I see him, I won't make it home. The tears will come before I can make it.

It's only once I'm in my driveway and I've shut my car off that I put my head on the steering wheel and let myself cry. Well, more than cry, I sob. I wish right then that I was different. I wish right then that I was braver, unafraid. I wish that I could stop hurting myself.

That I could stop hurting Sinclair.

That thought—the thought of hurting him when all I wanted was to protect him from me, from the ugliness my fear bought with it—makes me cry so hard I struggle to breathe.