My chest shakes with the bitterest of laughs and masks the heat that climbs to my ear. Like there’s a silly little girl deep inside of me that perks with his approval—blinded by the way Sawyercringedat the look of me earlier today.
It’s cruel, what he’s doing.
“Is that why you chose me? Because I’mgorgeous?” I ask, with too much derision.
It’s not that Ihatepretty people. I just … dislike them.
Including him.
Especiallyhim.
“I’m not the one who chose you.” His lips brush the shell of my ear. “But if I’d seen you, and it were up to me… I don’t think I could’ve resisted.”
I close my eyes. Swallow. Shudder when he kisses my earlobe, yet another patch of flesh I never considered erotic.
“You’re a liar.”
“And you’re insecure,” he shoots right back. Fast, too fast. Like it was already on his mind.
A sharp laugh pops from my mouth. “I’m a realist.”
“Said every pessimist ever.”
Batting his hand off my shoulders, I scoot forward. A stupid impulse, but one I don’t correct.
Sawyer just laughs—humored and cruel. It’s worse than if he’d punished me.
My breath pauses halfway to my lungs, my bruised throat throbbing on cue. A reminder that no … this is not the dark side of Sawyer. There are worse things than his laugh.
“Come here,” he says, voice light with amusement as he clamps the nape of my neck and guides me back. I settle against his chest and rewind time—put my back against a pole, a belt around my neck. Just to remind myself that this man is not safe.
“I can see why men find you intimidating.” His fingers and thumb pinch until they reach my spine. They pulse downward to a knot I had no idea existed. Tension releases that I try to command back—spine straightening, resisting the urge to slouch against him.
“You have the body of an athlete, and your posture is nearly perfect. You’re very poised… I’m going to say you’re a professional dancer… Ballet?”
I turn my head halfway and pause—smile, in spite of myself, at his attempt to read me. Futile but cute.
“No.”
“Gymnast?” he guesses again.
“No.”
His palms glide down my back to my waist. He rubs my hips while my breaths come quicker. “But you do something physical, right? I know for certain you don’t have an office job.”
“How could you know forcertain?”
“Because I’m good at this.”
My lungs pause at the confidence in his voice, and though I suspect he’s arrogant, I don’t question that he’s right most of the time. I think it’s how he fools people. He sees who they are, what they want, and how to give it to them.
I want to be disgusted by Sawyer. I feelobligatedto be disgusted by Sawyer. But his brain is a piece of art worthy of study, and I can’t help but respect him on some fundamental level. Can’t help but feel a light trace of familiarity, like I’m playing chess against myself. Or an upgraded version of my mind.
“Am I wrong?” he asks me.
No. He isn’t.
But when I open my mouth, a lie is perched on the edge of my tongue. An impulse to tell him he’s wrong just to hurt his confidence, throw him off his game… A mistake that could be disastrous.
