I freeze immediately, pulling my hand from her dress as terror wreaks havoc through me. She wants this, us—I know she does. Right? Maybe she’s not as ready as I thought.
I’m not going to push her, not when it comes to this. We like to play, hopping over the gray line of enthusiastic consent, but that doesn’t include this moment.
She said no, and that means no.
“Okay,” I murmur softly, showing her that no matter what, I’ll never force her to do anything she doesn’t truly want.
She’s panting, breathless, her chest heaving and lips parted. Her legs are open, the dress still hiked up from my touch. Every sign is telling me that she’s choosing to listen to her brain right now rather than her heart.
Her pussy is exposed, glistening in the light, and she does little to hide or shrink herself away.
Maybe this is her way of tormentingme—forcing me to look at the woman I want and love, to touch her but not enough and then have to walk away.
It’s not a game between us—it never has been—but right now, I’ll play hers.
Lifting my hand, I brush her cheek. She doesn’t flinch or move away, looking up at me with big, emotional eyes.
I can see her heart on her sleeve, the love in her gaze. I can feel it in the silence between us as our hearts race in sync together.
But I’ll give her what she wants.
For now.
She stutters, struggling to maintain her confidence, “I’ll—I’ll tell my dad. You’ll get kicked off the team.”
My thumb brushes across her bottom lip. “Are you going to tell him how you also begged me to fuck you with a knife pressed to your throat? Or are you going to leave that little detail out?”
“I hate you,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her body betrays her when her eyes drop to my lips, reigniting the fire in my soul.
“No, you don’t, Little Cupid.” I smirk. “But we can pretend—for right now—that you’re the one with the power.” I trail the back of my fingers down her chin, along her jaw, down her neck, and to the top of her collarbone.
“Take the time you need to come to terms withus.” I wrap my fingers around her throat, stroking the side with my thumb, tightening, just the way she likes it. “Be aware though: the longer you keep me on a leash, the more feral I’m going to become.”
He spins on his heel and disappears out of the room without another word, reminding me of the first time he touched me, when he left me breathless and panting, my core drenched with need, in a closet at the masked Valentine’s Day party.
I immediately miss the warmth of his hand around my throat and the way his fingers settled against my skin, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
This time, feeling the same ache for his absence comes with guilt and shame because I know who he really is. I shouldn’t feel these things forhim. He’s an arrogant prick and a hockey player on my dad’s team.
All of my dad’s career, I’ve never broken his rules because I know what those guys think. I’m a pawn, a challenge, a hurdle for them to jump. Nothing more.
Confusion pinches my brow because I’ve never felt more conflicted than I do right now.
I hate Bates. I hate him.
I hate that he has the cockiest grin that brings out deep, adorable dimples in his rosy cheeks. I hate the way his pupils dilate anytime he talks to me.
And I hate that he manipulated me like this, used the mask to get close to me because he couldn’t accept my initial rejection.
He doesn’t deserve the version of me that he got when he was hiding his face because I’d never have given it to him, knowing who he really was.
I’m so mad that I can feel the anger bubbling up in my chest.
My eyes water from the overwhelming frustration of what I feel for him, and the audacity of this elaborate plan of his.
I know it’s messed up to be more upset that my stalker is a hockey player on my dad’s team rather than having a stalker at all. But it’s just so … UGH, goddamn confusing.
I’m exhausted from the mental Olympics I’ve been performing all day.
