"Fine." He repeats the word like it amuses him. "You always were a minimalist with your praise."
And you always watched me like you were memorizing me for later.
I should say something sharp. Something cutting. Something that will make him let go of my hand and walk away.
Instead I stand there, pulse racing, skin burning, hating myself for every second I don't pull away.
"I should find Gracie." My voice comes out breathless. Weak. I hate the sound of it.
"She's by the bandstand." He nods toward the gazebo but doesn't release me. "Before you go—I wanted to offer my help."
"Your help."
"With the job search. The apartment." All concern now, all sincerity. "I have connections throughout the valley. If you're struggling to find opportunities, I'd be happy to make some calls."
The words are kind. The tone is kind.
But I hear what he's really saying.
I know you're failing. I know you're running out of options. I know you're exactly where I want you.
"I'll manage." I yank my hand free. The loss of contact leaves me cold and shaking. "But thanks."
Something flickers in his eyes. Amusement. Anticipation.
The look of a man who's already won and is enjoying watching me figure it out.
"The offer stands." He steps back, and the space between us feels like a trap waiting to spring. "Whenever you're ready."
He walks away, returning to his adoring crowd.
And I stand there with my heart pounding, my skin burning, and rage building in my chest so thick I can barely swallow past it.
I hate him.
I want him.
I hate that I want him.
And Ihatethat he knows it.
***
Sleep won't come.
I lie in the dark, stare at the ceiling, and feel his thumb moving against my wrist, over and over, like he's still touching me.
Like he'll never stop touching me.
The memory makes me sick, and it makes me wet.
I press my thighs together, hating myself, and replay every second of our conversation, looking for weapons, looking for weaknesses.
Finding nothing but the echo of my own desperate need.
This is what's keeping me awake. Not fear. Not anger.
The desire.
