My jaw tightens. “Don’t move.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“And I heard you lie.”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t speak to me like I’m breakable.”
“That’s not what I was trying to do. I simply want you to be comfortable.”
She sits up on her elbow and my gaze drops immediately to her tits. “I’m perfectly comfortable right here.”
I reach for my shirt where it lies discarded near the table and bring it to her. She takes it from me after a second, watching like she expects cruelty.
That makes something in my chest go cold.
“Put it on,” I say.
She does, stiffly, slipping her arms through it and pulling it around her body. It hangs off one shoulder, too large, open at the front until she buttons it with unsteady fingers.
My shirt on her should please me.
It does. But the blood ruins the feeling.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask.
She looks down.
“Anya.”
“A little.”
My hands curl into fists.
She sees it and immediately says, “Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Not like you’re thinking.”
I move closer, slowly, and crouch in front of her. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes are bright now. “You’re thinking you were too rough.”
“I was.”
“I liked it.”
My cock gives one stupid, inconvenient pulse at the words. I ignore it.
“You were a virgin.”
“I’m not made of glass.”
“No,” I say. “But it was your first time.”
