“I'm not.”
“You are.” He stands suddenly, and he's right there, looming over me. One hand is braced on the table beside my plate, the other tilting my chin up. “And I'm imagining it too. Every fucking night. Every goddamn day. The sounds you'd make when you come. How you taste. Whether you'd be shy or take what you want from me.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “The way you'd blush when I whispered dirty words in your ear. The taste of your pussy on my tongue. All of it.”
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can only stare at this man who, with no shame whatsoever, admits he fantasizes about me and wants me.
“Is that what this is all about?”
“You know it isn't,” he says. “But let's stop pretending, shall we?”
“No. You need to take me back. This is wrong.”
“I never said it was right.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “But I think you'd surprise yourself. I think my sweet, innocent girl has a wild side she's never let out. I think you'd let me do terrible things to you and beg for more. And I think it's exactly what you fucking need.”
“You're wrong.”
But my voice is shaking.
“Am I?” He steps back. “Finish your breakfast, Bianca, before I decide to make a liar out of you.”
He walks outside, leaving me trembling and furious and so turned on I can barely see straight.
This is so, so fucking bad.
He comes back with a pile of wood in one arm and the mail in the other, then pushes the plate toward me.
“Eat more. You need more.”
“No, I don't.” My stomach growls. I’m still hungry, but…
“Say one more fucking word about your weight, lass, and you know exactly what's gonna happen.”
When was the last time someone offered me a second fucking serving of carbs?
Marcus never made me breakfast. He took me to expensive brunches, then always pressured me to order the egg-white omelet. Who eats fucking egg-white omelets? They’re a freak of nature, and no amount of salt or cheese can make them even close to palatable.
So I take another bite.
“Can I go outside today?” I ask him.
“After that stunt you pulled yesterday? Absolutely fucking not.”
“I'm going stir-crazy in here.”
“Your ankle's still healing,” he says gently, raising an eyebrow at me.
“My ankle's fine. Just bruised, a little sprained.” I lean forward, holding his gaze. “I'm not asking to leave. Just asking for fresh air or whatever.”
He studies me for a long moment. I can see him weighing risks, calculating possibilities, and worrying, even when the thing he's protecting me from is a basic human need.
“Later. The back porch,” he says. “Where I can see you.”
“Deal. At least you know I won't be able to run.”
I press my lips together, wanting to tell him to fuck himself again, but I'm confident he'll turn that into an innuendo.
After breakfast, he helps me outside. Not because I need help, but because he seems unable to stop himself from touching me.
I don’t have to likehimto enjoy the feel of his hand on my lower back, his fingers wrapped around my elbow. Each point of contact burns, as if he's straight from hell, branding me.
