Page 42 of Trigger Happy Ending

Is she flirting with me? It feels like flirting.

“You’re fuckin’ loaded. Go to bed.”

“Soren,” she says, all singsongy. “Did you enjoy the show tonight?”

Watch it, Soren. This is a trick question. Tell the truth, and you’re a fool. Lie, and you’re still a fool. Be unbothered. Bored.

“I’m not playing another one of your Sparrow-Black-Widow-whatever-the-fuck games.”

“Admit it,” she presses, stretching one of her long, bronzed legs into the air. “You liked it.”

The nerve of this woman.

“I hated every second.”

Big lie. I’d walk through hell for another look.

“Ouch,” she says, lowering her leg. “You really know how to hurt a girl.”

She cracks a smile—fake or real, I’m not sure, I never can tell with her—and stands slowly before moving towards me.

“It was nothing special,” I say, my eyes traveling down her body, remembering how she looked shimmering on that stage. She looked like every fantasy I’ve ever had, only better.

She steps in closer, tequila breath warm on my jaw.

A smart man would pull away, not let this serpent near. A smarter man would pull her closer and fuck her right here, right now. But I don’t do either because I’m an idiot.

“And yet …” Her fingers find the waistband of my pants. Just a single hook of her nail. All my blood rushes south. “Tell that to your cock.”

Jesus fucking Christ. That’s it.

I grab her wrist and push her backwards, pinning her to the kitchen counter with my body. I feel the heat of her, the faint hitch of her breath. Inches from her mouth, from every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make. If she wants to, she could get out of this position. But she doesn’t move, telling me all I need to know.

She’s just as turned on as I am.

I have to diffuse this, this cannot escalate. As much as I want to taste her, fuck her and make her mine, she’s drunk. Not of sound mind. I need to push her away, do what I do best and piss her off to the point of no return. Even though I don’t want to. I really, really, don’t want to. God, my dick is never gonna forgive me for this.

“Do you think you’re on a fucking holiday?” I hiss, glaring at her.

Her brows knit, cheeks flushed from drinking. “What?”

“This.” I gesture at the air between us. “This bullshit. You. Being drunk and dancing like some party girl.”

Her smile dies, but her mean streak roars to life. My words have had the desired effect. Her spine straightens as she pushes away from me. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I say, even though I don’t believe it. The second the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. They taste like shit. But instead of retracting my statement, I double down instead. “You're slipping.”

“Slipping …” she repeats, her voice a whisper. Like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.

I tilt my chin upwards. “You’re exactly what I thought you’d be.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

She moves back into the living room, steadier than I thought she’d be after drinking all that tequila. A trait of an extremely trained assassin. Doesn’t matter how inebriated you are, you never lose those killer instincts. Especially when threatened. Which I guess she feels right now.

“Just another girl,” I snarl. “Immature and sloppy. A pain in my fucking ass.”

Her eyes sharpen like she can see straight through to my rotten core. But there’s hurt there too. She lets me see her pain for a microsecond, and I feel like even more of a prick for being the cause of that.