"Please," desperation colors my voice clearer than I intend. "Just take me back."
"No," he says firmly, continuing down the hall without slowing his stride.
Frustration surges, and I quickly follow on his heels, my voice rising with impatience. "Then tell me something, anything! How long am I supposed to stay here?"
He glances briefly over his shoulder, eyes darkly amused. "I haven’t decided yet. Maybe until you learn some manners."
"My manners are quite respectable," I scoff incredulously. "You're the one who's impossible, I don’t know why I’ve even bothered to attempt a spar with you—"
"And yet," the arrogant asshole repeats smoothly, cutting me off and turning abruptly to face me, his once cold eyes finally smoldering, "here you are, following me."
I stop abruptly, glaring at him, my chest rising and falling rapidly with indignation. "I'm not following you. I'm demanding answers."
"I'm under no obligation to answer you," he says dismissively. "Now, what you should do is go upstairs and ready yourself for dinner."
My jaw tightens dangerously, sarcasm dripping sharply from my tongue. "And exactly how would you like me, Hayden? On my knees, obediently waiting in the dining room when you arrive?"
He pauses, turning slowly, his expression darkening with dangerous amusement. A slow, wicked smile curves his lips. "You're an incredibly quick study, Martine," he drawls smugly. "I appreciate your enthusiasm."
"You're unbearable," I mutter weakly, though my voice lacks conviction.
Without warning, Hayden swiftly closes the distance between us. His hand grips my wrist firmly, pressing me sharply against the hallway wall, stealing the breath from my lungs. My heart races wildly, pulse quickening at his sudden proximity.
He holds me there for a moment, tightly, and leans forward to ghost his nose on my throat to smell me. I can barely see a glimmer of soul in his eyes; they’re so dark, and his eyelashes framing them are even darker in contrast to his dark blonde hair.
And while he grips ahold of me, I hate how my body betrays my desire to knee him between the legs. All I can seem to do is melt into his firm grip, practically begging for more.
Surprising me, his lips suddenly descend onto my neck, warm and demanding, breath hot against my skin. My body tenses, senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating heat of his mouth. Teeth graze my sensitive skin, sharp jolts of pleasure and shock spiraling through me. I gasp involuntarily, my hands instinctively clutching at his shirt. My body wavers between feelings of attraction and shock at his sudden actions.
Then suddenly, his hand slides upward, grasping my throat firmly, squeezing just a bit too tightly, sending a sharp thrill of animalistic warning through me. My breath catches painfully as he tugs the neckline of my sweater roughly downward, exposing my skin to the cool air. His tongue trails down from my neck, boldly tracing along the curve at the tops of my breasts. Each deliberate, heated stroke dismantles my resistance piece by piece, leaving me trembling, dizzy, utterly at his mercy.
I should want to fight, I should wiggle out of his grip and give him a tongue lashing. I should slap him hard across the face for defiling my skin with his tongue, and yet, I can't seem to move. I’m frozen in pleasure from his ministrations.
His lips find mine, and I moan embarrassingly loud into his mouth as he kisses me with tenderness so unexpected, I almost can't believe it's real.
"Now," he commands coldly, pulling back slightly, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, leaving barely an inch of space between our lips, "stop panting like a bitch in heat in my entryway and get ready for dinner.”
He shoves me roughly against the wall once more, storming away without another glance. Shaken, breathless, and conflicted, I hurry toward my room.
Behind the closed bedroom door, I lean heavily against it, trembling fingers rising to my neck, where the memory of his touch still burns vividly. My breath comes in shaky gasps as anxiety coils tighter within me. I quickly strip off the sweater, wash up, and choose a long, silver, liquid-silk dress, as if it’s an armor of sophistication and dignity. My fingers tremble slightly as I smooth the fabric into place; the delicate silk feels foreign against my sensitive skin.
His lips on mine, a sin I never expected to partake in. The taste of him—so smoky and sultry on my tongue—leaves my mind swirling in need and discomfort. How badly I wanted to pull him closer, and how desperately I wanted to shove him away.
Nervousness courses through me as I carefully apply a soft pink to my lips and cheeks with unsteady hands. I look flushed. My reflection in the mirror appears uncertain, and my heartbeat is erratic beneath my fragile composure. I brush my hair meticulously, every action driven by anxious anticipation.
With a final glance at my reflection, I take a deep, steadying breath and slide on another pair of satin kitten-heeled mules. Iopen the door, stepping into the hallway to face whatever awaits downstairs. My heart pounds loudly, uncertainty and desire waging a fierce battle within me.
Descending the staircase, each step echoes with hollow resonance, amplifying the nervous thrum in my chest. The mansion's grandeur suddenly feels oppressive, with ornate chandeliers casting elongated, mocking shadows along my path. When I finally entered the dining room, Hayden stands casually near the fireplace, his back turned to me, one hand holding a crystal tumbler filled with clear liquid.
I can’t help but think of the young boy who lost his parents as I watch him stand there, focus lost to the flames of the fire. Is that the cause of his torment? For his desire to take me away and keep me?
His shoulders are so broad for his frame, with a body built for contact sports instead of the archaic restraints of our proper life. I stand there staring at him for too long, at the muscles hidden under his jacket, wondering how they would look in a fencing suit.
"Sit," he commands without turning, sensing my presence as if he can hear the quickening rhythm of my pulse.
I blush like I’ve been caught ogling, although his back remained unturned to me, and he had no way of truly knowing how long I’d been standing there. Or I'd like to hope.
Suppressing my immediate impulse to retort sharply, I take a calming breath and choose dignity instead, gracefully settling into the chair at the opposite end of the polished mahogany table. Perhaps a more measured approach might yield results.
