I blink. “What?”
He gives a cold laugh. “Don’t tell me I just hallucinated him about to come into this place, and don’t lie to me and try to make out he wasn’t here last night.”
“We ate together,” I snap. “That’s all.”
His eyes narrow. “Ate like how Ace ate with you… or should I say how Ace ate you?”
My cheeks burn. What the fuck is wrong with this man?
“No!” I force myself to be strong. “But even if I did let Rook go down on me last night—which I didn’t—it still wouldn’t be any of your business. I’m a grown woman, and I get to do whatever, and whoever, I want.”
He shakes his head. “Not when it comes to my club.”
I roll my eyes and mimic him in an annoyingly high voice. “Not when it comes to my club.”
I almost clamp my hand over my mouth. I don’t know where that came from.
He glares at me with his stormy colored eyes, and, despite my fear of him, a little zing of a thrill goes through me. Just how far could I push him? He’s pissing me off, but hell, that can go two ways.
I jut out my hip and pout, bracing myself for his retort.
“Baby-girl,” he growls. “Don’t fucking push me.”
“Or what? You going to give me a spanking?”
I don’t think it’s my imagination when his eyes light up at my suggestion.
He takes a step closer, and I swear I feel the air between us crackle.
His voice is a low rumble. “If you think that would be a punishment, you should think again.”
I raise my chin. “Then what is your idea of a punishment? I’m guessing it’s being stuck here, all alone, and getting a scolding every time I so much as talk to another man.”
“It’s not a scolding, it’s a warning. I just don’t want you to become some goddamned bike that all my men have ridden.”
“Why? Because you turned down your chance to ride me when it was offered?”
I hold his gaze, even though I feel like I’m on fire.
“You’re my daughter’s friend. Do you have any idea how inappropriate that would be?”
I give a cold laugh and gesture around. “Since when have men like you ever cared about being inappropriate?”
He clenches his jaw. “Well, I fucking care. If I didn’t, don’t you think I would have?—”
He cuts himself off, and I find myself filling in the rest of his sentence.
“—fucked me already?” I say.
His gaze shifts away, and a little pulse of power inside me makes itself known. God, even after all this bullshit, I still want him. I picture myself throwing myself at him, him lifting me onto the counter while I wrap my thighs around his hips and crush my mouth to his. I want to feel his beard against my skin, and taste his tongue, and shove my hand down his jeans and feel how big his cock is. I want to stroke him and hear him moan. My desire for him is overwhelming.
“Camile…” he warns.
“Maybe I want you to,” I say in a breathy whisper.
He pauses, like a predatory animal right before it’s about to pounce and make it’s kill, and I hold my breath, my heart hammering. He’s holding himself back; I sense it with every ounce of my being. I will him to just give in, to let himself go. He can take my virginity right here on the kitchen counter, and I will die happy.
But then I see the moment where he gets hold of himself again, and anger takes over.
