A muscle ticks in his jaw.
The cut keeps bleeding, slow and steady.He shifts his weight, pressing me harder against the wall, and I feel the thick ridge of his erection notch against my lower belly through the borrowed sweatpants.
What the hell?
This made him hard?What the fuck kind of man is he?
“My little spitfire.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then he purposefully moves lower to linger on the way my chest rises and falls beneath his maroon Texas A&M sweatshirt.
The neckline has slipped sideways, leaving one of my shoulders bare.
His pupils flare again.
“You’re bleeding on me,” I say, voice tight, trying helplessly to force him away.
“You hit me with a lamp.”With his thumb, he strokes along the inside of my captured wrist, a slow, deliberate glide that sends sparks racing up my arm.“I’d say that makes us even.”
I jerk against his hold.
The movement only grinds us closer, making him grin.
He wedges his strong thigh between mine—unhurried, purposeful—and the firm muscle presses right against the seam of the sweatpants, directly over my clit.
And he intentionally angles a little bit, creating pressure.Then he moves.Once.Twice.
The slight, maddening friction forces a low, involuntary sound from me.
His eyes darken to pure black.“Oh, Valentina.”
“Don’t.”The word escapes me, sharp and unyielding, carrying the weight of every instinct screaming inside my skull.
My voice vibrates against his forearm, still braced across my collarbone, the pressure firm enough to remind me of his strength without cutting off my air.
His thigh remains wedged between mine, creating an unmovable barrier that forces my legs apart just enough to make me acutely aware of every shift in his balance, every subtle flex of muscle.
Heat radiates from him, seeping through the layers of fabric—his slacks against the borrowed sweatpants, his shirt brushing the sweatshirt I scavenged from his closet.
My skin prickles beneath it all, a flush creeping up my chest, but I lock my jaw against the unwelcome sensation, refusing to let my body betray me further.
“Don’t what?”His breath fans across my face, warm and laced with that smoky whiskey undertone, stirring the loose strands of hair.
The closeness amplifies everything—the faint metallic tang of his blood in the air, the steady thrum of his pulse where his wrist presses against mine, the way his chest expands with each controlled inhale, brushing my breasts in a rhythm that sends unwanted sparks skittering along my nerves.
I swallow hard.
My throat is still dry.There’s a lingering haze from whatever drug he used earlier, making my thoughts feel like they’re wading through molasses.
Anger surges again, hot and clarifying, pushing back the fog.
He’s the one who did this to me—drugged me, stripped me, locked me away like some prize in his twisted game.
I curl my free hand into a fist at my side, nails biting into my palm, the small pain grounding me.I won’t let him see how much this unnerves me, how the proximity of his body stirs a confusion I can’t afford.
“Get away from me.”I force the words out, each one laced with the steel I’ve honed over years at my father’s side, negotiating with men who’d sooner slit my throat than admit a woman could outthink them.
My heart pounds harder, echoing in my ears, but I hold his gaze, refusing to blink first.
