Scared to speak in the face of his anger and the not insignificant fact it looked like he was preparing to leave, I nodded.

“Thank Christ for that,” he muttered as he yanked his jeans to his hips and, not bothering to button them, he bent to tag his tee.

Okay, I didn’t know why but that kind of hurt.

I stopped trying to speak and watched him dress.

Night two of thirteen that he would leave me before dawn.

He snatched up his socks and boots, prowled to the bed, sat on the side but down toward the end where I wasn’t close and he pulled them on while speaking.

“Sharin’ info I’d rather not and wouldn’t have to if you didn’t pull that shit. Since it began with you, it’s only been you.” He yanked on a boot but twisted his neck, still bent toward his feet, and pinned me with his eyes. “Before you, babe, I was not abstaining. I use protection but shit happens.”

I pressed my lips together.

“Like tonight,” he went on.

My teeth came out to skim my lower lip. His eyes dropped to them like they always did when I did that but this time his face didn’t get soft and gentle or hard and hungry. He looked angry(er).

Then his eyes came back to mine. “Though not as good, which sucks ’cause I liked it even if I’m pissed as all fuck about it,” he finished, turned back to his boot, and tugged it on.

All right, maybe that was good news. He liked it.

He straightened from the bed, turned and glared down at me.

“Later, Lanie,” he grunted.

He was leaving.

As usual, without a word, he stalked out of my room, but not as usual, he didn’t pull the covers around me, tuck me in, turn out the light or kiss me.

He was just… gone.

I looked over my shoulder toward the door and I stared at it.

I did this a long time.

Hop didn’t come back.

I kept staring.

Hop still didn’t come back.

As I stared, I refused to process how much I didn’t want him gone. I refused to process how disturbed I was by that scene. I refused to process how upsetting I found it that I made him angry. I refused to process how troubling I found it that he was angry but he didn’t let me speak and then he stormed out still not letting me speak.

Instead, in order to keep successfully not processing all that, I shifted off the bed and moved to the bathroom to clean up. Making light work of that, I moved out of the bathroom, grabbed a clean pair of panties, pulled them on and grabbed a short, pale pink, satin nightie with thick black lace at the bodice and hem and tugged that on.

Still forcing myself to think nothing, I moved to the bed, got in, pulled up my own damned covers, tucked in my own damned self and turned out the light.

I settled in and stared into the darkness.

Hop was pissed.

Hop was gone.

Hop was the kind of man who didn’t let you get a word in edgewise when you were somewhat arguing but you were also somewhat not arguing because he wouldn’t let you get a stinking, stupid word in edgewise.

Hop was the kind of man who got mad at you because you gave head too good. Then he stormed out because you gave fantastic blowjobs that made him so wild, he buried himself inside you and forgot to put on a condom.

Therefore it was good Hop was gone because if Hop was there, I would have kicked him out.

“So that’s it. You got nothing?”

My body jerked in the bed as his voice came from the door and something occurred to me.

I was so busy trying not to think, I didn’t hear his Harley roar.

I switched on the light, got up to my booty in the bed, shoulders to the headboard, and saw him casually leaning against my doorjamb. There was nothing casual about the look on his face.

Still pissed but now, more.

“Two weeks, you got nothing?” he asked.

“What?” I asked back.

“So that’s it,” he said again and I stared at him, perplexed.

“What’s it?” I queried.

He pushed from the doorjamb, took one step into the room, stopped and planted his hands on his hips.

Unfortunately, all his hotness heated up significantly, hands on slim hips and handsome face angry.

Fortunately, I was not only perplexed, I was getting angry, so this didn’t affect me as it normally would.

“Lanie, you throw a shit fit when your soda fizzes over. The man you’re fuckin’ gets pissed and takes off, you got nothin’? You just put on a nightie, turn out the light and go to sleep?”

I felt my eyes get wide as I pointed out, “Hopper, you didn’t give me the chance to give anything.”

“You didn’t take your chance,” he shot back.

“Are you serious?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t.

“Do I look serious?” he asked back and I studied him.

He did. In fact, he seriously looked serious.

Something else hit me and I felt my brows shoot together. “Was that a test?”

He shook his head as he took his hands from his hips and crossed his arms on his chest, which was unfortunate because that pose assumed by a badass biker with kickass tattoos of flames on his sinewy forearms was even hotter.

By… a lot.

“No. Don’t play games,” he announced. “Don’t wanna know what kind of men you’ve had in your bed before me outside of the one I do know so, since I know about him, you gotta know, I get it. No offense to the dead but unless he had Superman under all that geek, babe, I know whatever you got from him you liked but it wasn’t what you get from me.”

He was not wrong about that.

Hop kept going.

“But the way I like it, you’ve had night after night of comin’ to know. So you knew what you were doin’ and you also knew, I said, ‘come here’, you come there. You know you’ll get your times to play but you also know I’ll fuckin’ give them to you. That’s the way I roll, the only way I roll. And last, you know you get off on that so do not try to bullshit that you don’t. So, no games. You pulled that shit anyway, knowin’ I wouldn’t be down with it so I was pissed. Then I sat on my bike, thinkin’ I shouldn’t haul ass but come back and work it out and as I was decidin’, I saw your light go out. You didn’t phone me. You didn’t text me. You didn’t even call my fuckin’ name as I walked out. I’m here, I’m gone, all the same to you. So, again, I’ll ask, that’s it?”

I wasn’t entirely certain I understood his question at the same time, scarily, I thought I did.

I went with what I thought but did it gently, “Honey, you know we don’t have that.”

I found I was right when his mouth got tight right before it opened to say, “And you know, two weeks, no cool down, fuck, if anything, our fire is blazing brighter; that’s bullshit.”

Oh God.

“Hop—”

“Or I thought so until your fuckin’ light went out.”

He stared at me.

I stared at him.

Neither of us spoke.

This time, Hop didn’t break it and it went on so long, it felt like the silence had become a weight and it started getting heavy on me. Heavy in a way I couldn’t breathe.

I had to breathe. I had to let something out. Therefore, I had to share.

Just a little bit.

“I don’t have anything to give, Hop.”

His response was immediate. “That’s bullshit, too.”

I shook my head.

He shook his, dropped his arms from his chest and came farther into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“Tyra will get it,” he declared then added, “eventually, and if she doesn’t, who gives a fuck? We do.”

I felt my breath catch.

We do.

He got it.

I got it.

We got it.

We absolutely did.

It was a drug for him like it was for me. He was my crack. I was his.

He’d just admitted it but I already knew it.

Thirteen nights, dark until dawn.

Feeling the hollowing of my belly whenever he left.

Counting the minutes until he came back.

I liked that he got it. I did. God, I did.

But I couldn’t let myself like it.

I also could absolutely not let myself have it.

“It isn’t Tyra,” I told him.

“You told her about us?” he asked instantly.

I shook my head again.

“It’s Tyra,” he stated, and he was right but only sort of.

“It’s more, Hop,” I informed him.

“Share,” he ordered on a clip, leaning in slightly and visibly losing patience.

“You don’t get that,” I said softly and carefully.

“Fuck me, babe, seriously?” he ground out then threw a hand toward the bed. “You knocked yourself out to make me wild. You told me your fuckin’ self. Why, Lanie? Why the fuck would you pull out all the fuckin’ stops to make a man already drunk on you drunker?”

Oh God.

He was drunk on me.

Drunk.

On.

Me.

I knew it but it felt good that he said it, right out, no lies, no hiding, no games.

My mind screamed, Do not process that, Lanie!

“I was just—” I started, scrambling to hold myself together.

Hold myself back.

“Don’t deny it, babe. Remember you came to me.”

“For one night,” I reminded him.

His hands went back to his hips as he bit out, “Jesus, that’s bullshit too.”

“It isn’t, Hop. I told you then exactly how it was,” I returned.

“You lied then and you’re lyin’ now.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” I snapped but it didn’t sound angry. Stupidly, I didn’t control it and it came out sounding desperate.

His head jerked. He heard it.

Then he gave it to me.

“You’re searchin’ for it, same as me. If you haven’t found it, fuck, babe, same as anybody.”

No, no I wasn’t searching for it. I was, years ago. Then I thought I’d found it. Then I lost it.

And I wouldn’t even allow myself to think he was searching.

“I’m not,” I denied.

“Serious as shit, Lanie, that’s bullshit too, worse than the rest ’cause you’re not only tryin’ to feed me that shit, you’re forcin’ it down your own fuckin’ throat.”

This had to stop.

I shook my head. “What you asked earlier—I’m sorry, honey, but the truth is, yes, that’s it.” I shrugged, hoping for nonchalant. “You’re gone, lights out.”

His eyes narrowed in that scary, sexy way and suddenly he moved and he did it fast. He was no longer at the foot of the bed but up it, knee in the mattress, arm around my waist, other hand behind my neck, both hauling me up with such power and speed my body slammed into his.

I made an oof noise but that was all I got out before his hand at my neck moved, went between us and my nightgown was yanked up my belly.

I felt myself instantly get wet as my body stilled.

I stared into his eyes trying to breathe as his hand at my midriff slid back down, slow, light. I shivered but he wasn’t starting something, something fabulous, like angry fighting sex that might lead, hopefully much later, to non-angry make-up sex.

He was saying something.

My still body turned to stone when his fingers stopped.

No, not when.

Where.

“You can’t hide it,” he whispered and I felt them, tears crawling up to choke me, biting the backs of my eyes, but I wouldn’t shed them.

No way.

I couldn’t give that to him.

I didn’t have it left to give.

“From the very first time, baby, I saw them. I saw them all. You can’t hide them,” he went on.

I stared at him, unmoving, not speaking.

“Here,” he ran his fingers light across the ridge on my belly. My scar. One of three. Opened up by a bullet, opened bigger by a scalpel. “Here.” He moved his hand to the pucker that ran along the top of my left thigh then his hand lifted. “And here,” he finished, his finger lifting to the mark that marred the skin just under my right breast.

I kept staring at him, unmoving, not speaking.

He held my eyes as his hand moved again, sliding down my arm, his fingers curling around my hand. He lifted our hands, pushed them between our bodies and pressed mine, palm flat, against my chest.

Against my beating heart.

“That’s you alive, Lanie,” he kept whispering then his head moved, coming my way, his lips hit the side of mine, his mustache tingling against my skin as his mouth slid along my cheek to my jaw and down, to my neck where he stopped and murmured against my pulse. “Feel you alive here, too, lady.”