Whatever is happening, it’s amazing. Better than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.

“Come, baby,” Tyke grunts. “Or I will.”

Come?

I gasp when he tips me backwards slightly and his hand goes between us. I feel his fingers gently glide up my nightie and he finds my panties. Heat flames my cheeks as he presses two of them against my core and begins rubbing hard. Pleasure unlike anything I could have dreamed shoots through my body, starting at my sex and riding deep, deep into my womb.

I cry out and clutch Tyke’s shoulders, as his fingers gently slow. His jaw is so tight he looks as if he’s in pain, and the thickness between us appears to be pulsing. Panting, I look down and see a thick, lengthy erection beneath his jeans. He presses his palm to it and groans, rubbing a few times.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growls. “Won’t fuckin’ come in my pants.”

He squeezes the thick length and closes his eyes, tipping his head back. It’s as if he’s trying to stop something from happening. He stays like that for so long I wonder if he’s in pain. My body has come down from the most amazing sensation, and I’m just sitting on his lap, confused. I have no idea what the hell just happened between us. I’m not stupid enough that I don’t know it was sexual, but what level of sexual I don’t know.

Tyke finally lifts his head and removes his hand, and I see the bulge is gone. So is the warmth in his face. He stares at me, jaw so tight the muscle jumps there. He’s going to do it again. He’s going to make me feel bad for something that clearly we both wanted. He’s making me feel . . . pathetic. He gently takes my hips and lifts me off him, putting me down on the couch beside him.

Then he stands, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve got—” He stops and clears his throat. “I have to go on a ride tomorrow; not sure how long I’ll be gone. We probably . . . need the time.”

Tears burn under my eyelids and I stand.

“Are you going to do this again?” I whisper, my voice too shaky to use. “Make me feel bad for something I didn’t do?”

His fists are tight by his sides, but he says nothing.

“Is it Andi?”

He flinches.

“Tyke, just tell me. Tell me what the hell is happening because I don’t understand it.”

He turns and stares down at me, then he says in a scratchy tone, “Pippa, you and I . . . we can’t work. Not because I don’t want it to, because fuck me, I do. I’ve wanted you since the moment I met you. It’s because . . .”

He looks away.

“Because of what?” I yell, hating the anger in my chest rising once more. “Tell me.”

“Because you’re too fucking good for me.”

I scoff, and cry, “Are you serious? Have you missed how my life has gone?”

“That’s exactly why. You deserve better, Pippa. You don’t need to be someone’s old lady; you don’t need to be living this rough life. You need a man that is good, clean and who will marry you, give you babies and a good house in a good neighborhood. You need safe. I’m not safe.”

I blink.

I’m done. So done with people treating me like a fragile little doll. I’m quiet, I’m scared, but I am not pathetic.

“Just admit it,” I say, so low he narrows his eyes.

“Admit what?”

“That I’m just not good enough for you. I’m too broken. Too damaged. Too pathetic and weak. Go on, Tyke, admit it!”

He blinks at me. “What the fuck? That has nothing to do with it.”

“Doesn’t it?” I scream. My hands shake and I can’t control the rage. It’s bubbling up like an angry animal in my chest. It’s tired of being locked down, and nothing I can do will hold it back. “So you’re not ashamed of me? You’re not sick of that fact that I’m so shy, and frightened all the time? You don’t see me as pathetic? As weak? As the fragile little china doll you can’t touch?”

His eyes are narrowed with confusion and pain. “Pippa . . .”

“No,” I scream, reaching up and grabbing my hair. “This life you live, it’s nothing on the life I lived. I’ve seen more than you could possibly imagine. Do you have any idea? Any at all? I’ve picked up a woman’s brains with my own hands! My own fucking hands.”

My knees start trembling and heat floods my veins.

“Fuck, Pippa . . .”

“Don’t,” I screech, stepping backwards and tugging my own golden locks. “Don’t pity me. I’m so damned tired of pity. You know what? Your excuses are just that, Tyke. Excuses. It’s a cop-out. It’s a weak, pathetic way of saying you’re too scared to handle me. Well you know what? If that’s what you want, then so be it. I’ve held onto you, praying that you’ll see me for more than just a little broken angel, but you won’t. No one will. I’m always going to be the fragile piece of china you all tiptoe around.” I take a deep trembling breath and gather all my courage. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I met you, Tyke. Obviously you don’t feel the same; you’re using any excuse you can to make sure I know that. So go on your ride, and leave me the hell alone.”

I turn and walk off.

“Pippa!” he calls.

“Get out of my house,” I say in a voice so dark and so damaged even I flinch. “I don’t want to see you again.”