The accusation stings more than it should.
"That's not true."
"Prove it."
"How?"
"Give me back my clothes. Or at least let me pick out my own things from what you bought. Something that doesn't make me feel like I'm a doll playing dress-up as your fantasy."
I could do that. Should do that.
But it would mean admitting I was wrong. Admitting I went too far.
Her breathing is still ragged from her tears, a soft, hitching rhythm that fills the silence I let stretch. I should give in. Tell her she can have whatever clothes she wants. It’s the right move. The smart one.
But something in her tone ignites a different response entirely.
I turn onto my side to face her. She’s just a shape under the duvet, turned away, but I can feel the heat coming off her.
“You want me to prove I don’t just see you as a thing to control?” My voice is low, a rough murmur in the quiet room.
She doesn’t answer, but her shoulders tense. She’s listening.
I move slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. My hand finds the edge of the duvet. I don’t pull it down. I just rest my fingers there, on the linen. Her body goes perfectly still.
“Then stop hiding from me.”
A long moment passes. The air is thick, charged. Then, with a sharp, frustrated motion, she shoves the covers down to her waist. She’s still wearing that soft, worn t-shirt. Her face is turned away from me, her profile sharp in the moonlight. Her chest rises and falls too fast.
My gaze travels down the line of her throat, over the frantic pulse beating there, down to where the thin cotton of her shirt strains across her chest. Her nipples are hard peaks against the fabric.
Fucking hell.
I shift closer. My bare chest doesn’t touch her back, but I feel the warmth of her skin through the emptiness between us. A phantom pressure. I bring my mouth to the shell of her ear. Her breath catches. A tiny, sharp intake of air.
“You think I bought those clothes to humiliate you?” I whisper, my lips so close they almost brush her skin. A tremor runs through her. “You think I want a doll to dress up?”
I let my hand settle on her hip, over the shirt. My fingers press into the soft give of her flesh, feeling the solid bone beneath. She’s rigid, holding herself so tense she’s practically vibrating.
“Look at me, Bianca.” I purr in her ear.
She shakes her head minutely, a stubborn refusal that makes my blood heat.
I apply the slightest pressure, urging her onto her back. She resists for a heartbeat, two, then relents, letting me roll her over. Her eyes are wide, glossy in the dark, fixed on the ceiling. Refusing to look at me. Her lips are parted.
I lean over her, one arm braced beside her head, caging her in. My face is inches from hers. I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo, the clean sweat on her skin, the unique, warm fragrance that is justher. My gaze drops to her mouth.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
“I don’t want a doll,” I murmur, my voice dropping even lower. “Dolls are cold.” I bring my other hand up, but I don’t touch her face. I hover my fingers just above her cheek, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. “They don’t flush like this.” My fingerstrail down, a hair’s breadth from her jaw, her throat. “They don’t get warm.”
I let my knuckles brush against the side of her breast.
She jolts as if electrocuted, a full-body spasm, and a broken sound escapes her lips. Her eyes finally slam shut.
So damn responsive.
“They don’t make sounds like that,” I say, my own breath starting to labor. The front of my pants is straining, painfully tight. The need to pin her down, to crush my mouth to hers, to tear that shirt aside is a screaming impulse in my veins. I clench my jaw, fighting it.
