“What are you doing?” Braxton demands. His eyes are trained on the plate in front of him, which leads me to wonder what he is referring to.
“Hmmm?” I question, trying to feign indifference.
“Why are you sitting like that?” he bites out.
“It’s comfortable,” I reply with an equal amount of bite, though my cheeks redden. It’s bad enough that he’s made me feel like this about my gown, but knowing he’s noticed my reaction is one step short of pure mortification.
Using one arm to continue shielding my body, I pick up my fork with my other hand and slide the roasted potatoes around on my plate. One of my favorite foods that Marita prepares, andI can’t even enjoy it because I can feel his words grating against my skin like a dull blade.
“Why are you hiding yourself?”
This question makes my eyes flick up to him. He’s staring at me now, no longer fascinated with the food in front of him. The intensity in his gaze has my stomach coiling. If I didn’t know better, I would say there was a hint of desire dancing inside his darkened pupils, but when they drop back down to my dress and his lips thin into a tight line, I feel humiliation burn through me anew.
Never in any of my nights eating with him have I felt this insecure or this stupid, and it makes me want to jump out of my skin. I know I need to see this through, though, if I want any hope in encouraging him to drop his guard. More importantly, I can never let him know he got inside my head like that, and the best way to do that is to act unbothered and as if my epiphany of disliking this attire was completely of my own accord.
Pulling my arm away from my body, I lift my chin defiantly. “I’m merely thinking perhaps this wasn’t the best dress for dinner tonight, is all.” I try to shrug nonchalantly but it feels stiff.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you like your dress for dinner?”
My cheeks flame further. I didn’t think he would actually continue this conversation. Refusing to break eye contact, my skin begins to itch with the way Braxton is studying me.
“Are you referring to my reaction to your dress?” I would think he was teasing me with his inquiry, but there’s not amusement in his tone or expression.
I don’t say anything, but I’m increasingly annoyed by how transparent I must be acting. My glare wavers as the temptation to look away from him seizes me momentarily. Needingsomething to do with my hands, I bring my cup of water to my mouth. I don’t dare sip the alcohol sitting in front of me with the way my emotions are warring with themselves. I’m old enough to know that will only lead to a morning filled with regrets and a raging headache.
“Let me clear up any confusion,” Braxton drawls as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “I want to rip that dress off of you with my teeth.”
His bold declaration has my eyes rounding, and I have to clap my hand over my mouth to keep myself from spitting out the water I now find myself choking on. I silently thank the holy skies for my coughing fit seeing as I couldn’t string together enough words for the correct response to his statement even if I tried.
Thankfully, he takes that moment to keep talking, saving me from having to find a response. “So, if I gave any other impression, I would like to apologize wholeheartedly because the last thing I want you to do is go upstairs and change.”
His eyes bore into mine, and the lustful intensity burning inside his has my stomach dipping.
I try to school my features so he isn’t able to read the one question bouncing around in my brain:What the fuck has gotten into him?
11
Braxton
Whatthefuckhasgotten into me?
At this rate, I’m going to terrify Azalea right back to clamming up and holing herself up inside her room. I need to switch tactics, and quickly. It’s fucked up, but if she’s not ready to slit my throat, I don’t know how to gauge her emotions.
“Just so you know, if I wish to change, I will do so. I don’t need your permission on the matter,” she practically sneers at me, dropping her arms into her lap. If the fierce glint in her eyes wasn’t so captivating, I’m sure my own would have dipped down to appreciate the bountiful curves that that dress is expertly putting on display again. “And I can assure you,” she continues, not giving me a chance to respond. “If I did want to change, it would have nothing to do with you or your opinions.”
She is truly awful at biting her tongue and playing nice, and fuck if that isn’t one of the most torturously desirable things about her.
“Unless you’re using it as an invitation, I suggest you don’t leave dinner early and go to your room.”
I watch her throat work, flicking my eyes back up to see the pure rage burning beneath her honey gaze. And now I’m hard. Noticeably so. Fuck.
She plants her hands on the table and pushes her chair back so forcefully that it clatters to the ground behind her.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she seethes.
