Asshole.
When he pulls back, I chase it for half a second before dignity slaps me across the face.
I scowl.
He notices.
His thumb brushes my lower lip once. “What?”
I hesitate, which is disgusting in itself before I ask. “Can I go with you?”
One brow lifts. “To a warehouse full of men?”
I prop myself up on my elbows and immediately regret it because my whole body feels deliciously overused. “Yes, I always go.”
His stare drifts over me again, taking in my naked body, the sheet pooled uselessly around my thighs, my hair all over the place.
“No.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“Because,” he says, calm as anything, “you promised Vasilisa and Adriana you’d go out with them today.”
Oh.
Right.
I flop back face down dramatically. “Iknow,but I don’t want to do the girl thing anymore.”
That gets an actual laugh out of him. Low. Brief. Mean enough to make me want to throw something.
I turn my head and glare up at him. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“You are lying naked in my bed pouting because I won’t take you to work with me.”
I cross my arms under the pillow. “I’m not pouting.”
“You are.”
“I’mnot.”
He just looks at me.
The worst part is, I know exactly how I sound. Clingy. Ridiculous. Like some pathetic little thing who can’t stand the idea of a few hours without him.
I hate that too.
Except with him, the feeling doesn’t come with shame the way it should. It comes with something worse.
Safety.
He makes me feel safe enough to be embarrassing. Which is probably its own kind of sickness.
I look away first. “Fine.”
His hand slides over my spine, slow and absentminded, like he knows I’ll calm down if he touches me long enough.
Cheater.
