Sinclair

Chapter Four: Full Force

THE SILENCE THAT IS stretching across the bar as everyone watches to see what will happen is...uncomfortable, to say the least. Even though I know I should turn around and meet his eyes, I feel a lot like someone has given me some kind of drug that has rendered every limb in my body utterly useless.

I'm unable to turn.

He's still standing close behind me, although his lips have left my ear. His warmth is seeping through the thin material of my cardigan and it brings back too many memories. They all seem to spring into my head all at once. And it's like it was when I walked into this bar earlier today. That feeling of not knowing how much you missed something until it's suddenly right in front of you, within touching distance.

I have a feeling that if I turn now, that feeling will hit me at full force.

"You gonna say anything?" he asks. The deep, husky cadences of his voice send shivers from the crown of my head all the way to the tips of my toes.

I tell myself that I am absolutely prepared for this. I tell myself that I'll be fine. If I tell him I don't want a relationship anymore, surely he'll get the idea and let me go. But to do that, I'll need to look at him.

Taking a deep breath for courage, I turn slowly, praying that the two glasses of bourbon that I downed prior will give me even more courage.

When my eyes see him for the first time in a year, they can't help but be incredibly pleased. His hair is still longer than it should be, still cupping his ears the same way I remember. His gray eyes—like storm clouds rolling along an endless sky—are still every bit as captivating and intense as they were in the memories I had of him. His body is every bit as drool-worthy. The leather jacket with his crew's logo on it does nothing to hide those broad shoulders. The plain white T-shirt he wears underneath does nothing to hide his six-pack.

Fuck me over sideways. If I keep staring at him, I'm going to forget that I came here to tell him I don't want to see him again.

While my eyes were drinking him in, his eyes are drinking me in. He's basically eye f*****g me at this point. His eyes moving up and down, here and there, resting in places that are inappropriate. Especially since everyone in this place is watching us curiously.

Getting ahold of himself, he looks over at Carla who is glancing rapidly between the two of us and says, "Get me the usual."

That seems to thaw her curiosity out as she makes the bitchiest face she can muster and mutters a sarcastic, "Sir, yes sir."

The entire bar thaws out after he says that. A couple of the guys head over to the pool table, a couple of them sit down at some of the old, rickety tables and some of them slide into the booths, occasionally shouting their orders to Carla who yells, "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Keep your f*****g panties on, gentlemen." This earns her a round of deep, manly guffaws.

As this is happening, Sinclair sidles up next to me, leaning against the bar top and just looking at me. This feels very reminiscent of when we first met. He had leaned against the bar and watched me with those stormy eyes back then, too.

After finishing his drink, Carla slides it across the bar top and in Sinclair's direction. He catches it easily, never even taking his eyes off of me as he does so. With reflexes like that, you'd think the guy was training to go up against Batman or Wonder Woman.

"You look good, little goddess," he finally speaks after taking a long sip of his drink. "Very good, actually." He leans in a little closer. "It makes me remember our week in Paris in perfect detail."

At that moment, so much blood rushes to my face that I become slightly lightheaded. When we first started having s*x, we couldn't keep our hands off of each other. So much so, that it actually made the guys and Carla sick. Carla constantly yelled at us to quote, "get a f*****g room and stop dry-humping in my bar."

We ended up deciding to go away for a week to get our hormones under control. Sinclair had left Bruiser in charge, telling him to call if things got serious enough that his help was required, and we ended up in Paris. There was no sightseeing, though because we stayed in our hotel room that entire week. It probably isn't hard to guess what we were doing in there.

That's why when he brought up Paris, my body seemed to respond on its own. I had pushed down a lot of memories between Sinclair and I—especially my memories of Paris—but now that he brought it up, I could see it so clearly in my mind. For a second, it felt like it was happening all over again.

"I'm not here for that Sinclair," I managed to say, forcing thoughts of Paris and non-stop s*x out of my mind.

"Sinclair?" he mutters in surprise, raising an eyebrow. "When you look at me like that, don't you usually call me Sin?"

More blood began circulating toward my face. It was true. When Sinclair and I really got into it, I would find myself unable to say his full name, so I would take to calling him Sin instead. He never seemed to mind it very much, in fact, I think he liked me calling him Sin in the bedroom.

But things were not as they used to be. I was not as I used to be. If he was still in love with me, then I had to put him off. There was no way in Hell I could fall in love or let someone else fall in love with me.

I had to put a stop to this.

"Sinclair," I continued on, pretending I hadn't heard his previous statement. "I only came here to tell you to leave me alone. You and me, it's just not going to happen, okay?"

I wait for a moment to see if he'll respond. He doesn't. After a while, I just assume he's never going to respond and I get out of my seat and start to walk away. Because surely, if he isn't responding he must have heard something in my voice. I just hope that something will be enough to keep him away.

But before I can even move two feet, an arm is snaking around my waist and pulling me toward a warm, solid body.

And what bothers me so badly in this moment is the fact that it doesn't bother me that he's this close. I hate the part of me that relishes in how tiny he makes me feel. I don't want to listen to the tiny voice—growing louder with each passing second—that says I know the truth. That I know that I like how soft and feminine I feel as he holds me against his strong, sinewy form.

I hate that part of myself so much and I try to resist it as much as I can, even though I can feel it growing and spreading like some kind of virus taking hold of my body.

"Where are you going, little goddess? We haven't even finished our conversation."

His words bring me back to the situation at hand, even if his voice makes my knees buckle slightly.

"I say we're finished," I hissed quietly, trying to pull myself from his grasp.

Surprise, surprise, I can't move an inch. His arm around my waist is every bit like an iron boulder, keeping me pressed securely to his side.

"You know, little goddess, I've always like that fire of yours," he murmurs conversationally. He presses his lips to my ear and, so slowly it's both pleasurable and frustrating, he moves his lips from my ear, along my jawline, stops at my chin before he goes back again. He does this three time before he speaks again.

"I'd prefer it if you'd save that fire for more convenient places, though. Like my bed, for instance." And then he makes eye contact with me, giving me a smile that is exactly like a mischievous fox that knows it's done something bad but doesn't care about the repercussions at all.

All that I can do is sputter unattractively. I have absolutely no comeback. No, scratch that, I actually have a million comebacks but for some reason, they all come out that way, with me stuttering uncontrollably.

While I struggle to force my lips to say the words that I was screaming internally, Sinclair used that moment to steer me away from the bar and toward the stairs that led to his office upstairs. I knew that office well. A few times, we'd sneak away to it for a little...hanky-panky, as people called it.

This thought has me struggling with even more force to get out of his arms.

"What's wrong?" he asks with a tone that implies he knows exactly what's wrong.

"Why are you taking me to your office?" I ask him, my voice a little too squeaky with nervousness to sound as intimidating as I want it to. "I'm not here for...whatever you're thinking about."

He gives a low laugh that sucker punches my ovaries until they feel like they're on the verge of combustion, then he says, "Calm down, little goddess. I'm just taking you up here so we can talk without all the attention on us." Then he looks down at me with that fox-like grin and goes, "Although, I can understand why you're so adamant about us not being alone together. You had a hard time keeping your hands off of me if I remember correctly."

As we reach the end of the staircase and he ushers me forward, silently willing me to start climbing them, I turn to give him a deadpan look.

"Clearly you aren't remembering correctly. You were the one with the huge inability to keep your hands to yourself. Not me."

Then, I turn and start to ascend the stairs. On the second step, I hear Sinclair let out a low whistle and quietly say, "Can you blame me?" before the sound of his footsteps start to follow my own.

I tell myself that when we reach this office, I will convince him this is the end. I will convince him that his "love" for me is a mere infatuation that will pass one day. I'll tell him love was never a part of the plan and that he should just leave me be before one of us gets hurt.

Before I get hurt.

Nodding internally, I tell myself that when I walk out of this bar, I will have cut ties with Sinclair once and for all.