“I didn’t set you up,” I say, setting the glass down with care. “You got this started.”
His mouth tightens. “I didn’t know—”
I give a small laugh, bright and brittle. “You didn’t know?” I echo, and now I do laugh, because the audacity is almost impressive. “I walked into that room last night, Antonio, and you zeroed in on me.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because you were the most beautiful woman there.”
"Oh, please," I scoff. "You said it yourself. Ill-fitting dress, unflattering makeup. I know what I looked like because I curated it. People look because I'm tall, then they look away because I make sure they do. You didn't. You came right for me."
"And you liked it," he says, low and accusatory. "Don't pretend you didn't."
My chin lifts. “You have no idea what I liked.”
“I know you liked me with my tongue on your clit,” he bites out, and the crudeness of it, the sheer unexpected violence of the words, hits me like a slap.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. My whole body flushes, a wave of shame and anger and, damn him, unwanted memory.
“Fuck you," I spit back, my voice shaking with fury.
He smiles, but it’s a terrible, mirthless thing. “You already did. And you loved every second of it.”
My composure cracks. A clean, sharp snap that I feel all the way through me. I turn away a moment before the carefully constructed mask I’ve worn all night shatters, and the raw, wounded, furious woman underneath is exposed.
He used my body against me.
He used my pleasure against me.
He’s using my memory against me.
I need to get out of this room.
I need to get away from him.
I reach for my clutch on the table, not bothering to turn back to him. I can't.
"Elsa." A sigh.
It’s worse.
This is worse. The softness is a weapon now, a way to make me feel small. I am small. I feel small. I feel stupid and used and small, and I hate it.
"Don't," I say, my back to him. "Don't you dare."
"I wasn't..." he starts, then stops.
I can feel him moving, feel the air shift as he steps closer, but he doesn’t touch me.
"Elsa," he says again, and his voice is different now. Stripped of the anger, of the flirtation, of everything but a raw, ragged exhaustion. "Look at me."
"No," I say. It comes out a whisper.
"Please," he says, and the word is so unexpected, so vulnerable, it makes myshoulders stiffen.
I stay facing the door. I feel more than hear him walk up behind me, close but not touching. I can feel the heat of him, the sheer presence of him, and my body, my stupid, treacherous body, still wants him. Still yearns for the comfort, the safety, the pleasure I thought I found in his arms.
It makes me sick.
"I'm sorry," he says.
