Touching him feels compulsive, an urge I resist.
“I am looking.” He cocks an eyebrow, his face a picture of indifference. “And what I’m seeing is you. Where you’re not supposed to be.”
He’s such an asshole.
A stubborn one, at that. The glint in his eyes gives him away, proof that he isn’t upset that I’m here at all.
I’m starting to suspect he’s been riling me up on purpose.
Maybe thedress, the wiped paint from my stomach, this whole act—all of this—is meant to force my hand. To make me confront him before our scheduled meeting.
Maybe it’s a sick test.
To what end? I have no idea.
Just in case I’m right, that a challenge is what he wants, I give it to him.
I narrow my eyes and say, “Yet here I am.”
“Yet here you are,” he growls, snuffing the amusement from his expression.
How dare he look so controlled? Composed in a way that almost seems inhuman?
A lot has happened between us. Good, terrible, heart-wrenching things. Somehow, none of it seems to faze him.
Has he been faking everything? The sliver of vulnerability, the lust, the anger?
If he has, then—oh my God—the dress, the painting, the picture, they weren’t meant to grab my attention. He’s simply been mean.
“You…” I poke his chest, resenting how sturdy it is. I don’t want to notice his muscles right now. “You’ve got some nerve.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Duncan. You, you despise me.” I poke him again, harder this time. He doesn’t flinch. “You treat me like a plaything?—”
“Poor little Elowyn.” His hand rises to my jaw. When I slap it away, his eyes flare. “Were you expecting a bouquet of roses after I shot my cum down your throat? Figured I’d fold you into my arms and just forget the past?”
“Forget?” I scoff. “Why would I want that?”
He only scowls back at me.
“Look, I get that you’re angry because of what I did. Me and…Barclay.”
I wait for an answer. Duncan remains infuriatingly quiet.
Fine, if he doesn’t want to talk, he’ll listen.
“I’m sorry about everything. I really am. But you have to admit you’ve taken this too far.” My pulse races, tears of frustration and heartache stinging the corners of my eyes. “Why can’t we just talk?”
The silence that follows my questions is driving me mad.
It’s why I can’t help raising my voice when I add, “We’re owed a conversation, dammit.”
He leans in until his face levels with mine, brows shooting down. Rage fills his eyes.
Ice-cold fear shoots up my spine. Somehow, I manage to hold firm.
“You?” The one word is as sharp as a whip. “Deserving anything?”
