He spoke slowly as to not be misunderstood, and Amelia took him at his word because there lay his boundary—Mirabelle both his virtue and his weakness.
Emory pulled away enough to stare at her mouth and not with shallow interest like before, but palpable desire even the darkness couldn’t conceal. His grasp on her throat tightened until Amelia’s lips parted with a startled breath.
“Maybe I do want to hurt you. Squeeze until you beg me to stop.”
Emory had nothing left to threaten her with that he hadn’t already, so her curiosity of him took a morbid turn. Fueled by exhaustion, Amelia discarded her better judgment, the rational part that demanded her fear. Pinned against the wall, what power did she have?
Enough to call his bluff.
“Go ahead,” Amelia said and placed her hands on his chest. Against her palms, his heart raced just as wildly as hers. He so clearly didn’t know what to do with her—fuck her into submission or deliver on his more sinister promises.
Emory ran the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip and eased into her until their bodies met. Amelia closed her eyes as his thumb caressed her top lip.
“Is that what you want?” he asked, his dick hard and pressed against her. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for, the things I could do to you.”
Emory released her throat and cupped her cheek. His hand at her waist disappeared beneath her dress and settled on her naked hip.
“No underwear.” He smiled wickedly at the observation and leaned in close, his lips nearly grazing hers. “That for me?”
A dizzying thrum coursed through Amelia. Emory couldn’t hide his arousal behind walls of steely reserve and something in his brazenness sent her into a tailspin of conflicting desires.
He would fuck her so good, she had no doubt, and seemed the kind of man to take great pride in that. And maybe he wanted to fill her up, to put her on top of him and let her ride to her heart’s content, until she came with trembling knees and his cock slick with her orgasm.
Remember who he is.
A monster. A murderer. A horrible man.
Amelia gripped his shoulders. Her fingers dug into the muscle there and she drew him in. With her breasts against his chest, she craned her neck to meet his gaze.
“Nothing I do is for you,” Amelia whispered. “Get off me.”
Skin hot, she burned alive but shoved him away. Emory laughed, and perhaps Amelia should’ve been afraid as she hurried into the room where the bed was unmade. How easily Emory could pry open her legs and make a bigger mess of the sheets. And wouldn’t he love to find her already wet and ready for him?
Amelia cradled her elbows and turned to the door. Emory leaned against the frame. A faint blush dusted his cheeks, and he ran a hand over his mouth.
“And to think Mirabelle told me to be sweet,” he said.
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Great job you’re doing.”
Emory’s anger returned, and the scar on his lip exaggerated its sneer. Good. If he hated her that much, he could leave; let that be that and throw in the towel like Mirabelle had. If her only weapon against these people was driving them to exasperation, Amelia would wield it with all her might because she hated him too.
“I’ll be across the hall,” Emory told her and, in a miserly demonstration of good will, locked the door from the inside.
The stilted courtesy seemed foreign to him and entirely forced, enough that Amelia just as easily interpreted it as a threat. She managed a nod and mumbled “goodnight,” yet another wasted courtesy. The farce of pleasantries only further plowed a gaping chasm between them.
“Sleep well,” he said with what seemed like great difficulty and an even greater desire to be unburdened of her.
When Amelia refused a response and wanted him gone, Emory pulled the door shut behind him, locking her inside.
FOURTEEN
EMORY
The next morning, Emory plied Amelia with breakfast she barely touched. A croissant disintegrated in a pool of pineapple juice on her plate, and a piece of melon was left skewered on her fork. He stretched his legs beneath the table. When his calf brushed hers, Amelia turned sidesaddle in her seat to avoid his touch.
Emory created pockets of silence Amelia refused to fill, so the quiet animosity brewed between them. She stared out the window of the breakfast nook and rubbed the inside of her wrist. Self-soothing, he assumed, until he glimpsed the rope marks there.
He tried the next day and the day after that. A week passed where they bickered and brawled. There were afternoons of fraught silence and evenings of bitter dispute. Emory made promises at dusk that he broke come dawn. He tried at softness then turned to stone. He was, in turns, her ally and her adversary.
