How he made it out of the car and over to my side so fast, I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t go anywhere as long as he stands before me.
Or rather, as long as he’s backing me up into his car.
As soon as my spine hits the cold metal, I shiver and words jar out of me. “Let me go.”
He doesn’t.
Frankly, I didn’t expect him to.
But then I also didn’t expect him to lean forward. I didn’t expect him to put his arm on the roof of his car, just by my side, effectively stopping me from leaving.
Although I should have. Expected it, I mean.
If he can lock me up in a closet so I don’t get to run from him, he can do anything.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
In response, he runs his eyes all over my body, slowly, methodically, as if making a point before raising them back to my face. “Looking at you.”
Again, I get the urge to rub my thighs together at his low, heated tone. “Why?”
“Because that’s what you want, don’t you? You want me to look at you.”
“I do not,” I lie.
When did I become such a liar?
I thought I was the good girl.
He knows I’m lying too because a smirk breaks out on his ruby-red, crescent-shaped mouth. Only it has a dangerous edge, a humorless quality. “Yeah, you do. Why else would you be wearing something like that? Something that…” He looks me up and down again, a cursory and yet lingering glance. “Leaves very little to my imagination.”
My imagination.
As if.
I put my sweaty palms on his Mustang so my balance doesn’t falter. “That’s extremely arrogant of you, don’t you think? To assume that. That I’d wear something just to get your attention.”
Never mind that I did. I mean, subconsciously.
Okay maybe alittleconsciously but whatever.
He dips his chin in a condescending manner. “It’s the truth though, isn’t it?”
In response, I raise mine, just to look defiant. “No, it’s not. And this is a perfectly normal dress.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
I’m not sure what’s happening tonight but everything that I’m saying is making him angrier and angrier.
And none of that is even remotely bothersome to me.
Not even when he leans further down, shaking the car at my back and bringing his wolf eyes, which I cannot look away from, even closer.
“Because I don’t think that aperfectly normal dresswould highlight every fucking curve of your tight ballerina body,” he says with clenched teeth. “Would it? Or that when you walk in it, your perky tits would be dangerously close to jiggling out. And the whole world could see the cheeks of your juicy, tight ass.”
For a number of seconds after he’s finished talking, I’m unable to believe the things he’s said.
