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Breath stutters out of me. I’ve had men say those very words to me before, but it’s somehow different coming from this man. Far more toxic and dangerous.
He pushes his leg between my thighs, the hard muscles pressed against what I imagine is now thoroughly-soaked cotton panties that betray my resistance. The knowing look in his eyes, along with that insidious grin of his that I want to smack right now, tells me he’s all too aware of my secret attraction toward him.
Tipping my hips back against the wall relieves me of the pressure against my sensitive flesh, and the incessant throb is a frustrating reminder that I could’ve easily humped this guy’s leg like some horned up dog just now.
“One night with you. Whatever I want. After which, I’ll return your knife, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
I’ve certainly slept with men who propositioned me for less than what that knife means to me, but something about this particular man has my body as much on guard as aroused. Something tells me one night with him would probably be the most terrifyingly exhilarating night of my life, but I’m too chicken shit to find out. Doesn’t matter that he’s hot as sin, or that the taste of deliciously bad decisions lingers on the tip of my tongue, just begging to be savored. This guy would swallow me up and spit me out like expired milk.
Sorry Russ. I loved the knife.
“You know what?” I hate that my voice arrives shaky and unsteady. “Keep the knife. Shove it up your ass and fuck yourself with it.” Muscles tense, I wait for him to react in anger, as men sometimes do when their pride has just been slapped.
Instead, his lips curve into a deviant smile, and he steps back from me. “Comme te veux. As you wish.”
The exchange should fill me with elation, knowing I so proudly stood up for myself, to this guy who thinks he reigns over women, so why the hell do I feel like I’ve lost? It isn’t right.
A part of me almost wants him to react in rage, because at least then I’d feel one-hundred percent certain I made the right choice by denying his request. But, no. He’s gotta be all nice and Valir Frenchy suave about it.
“So that’s it, then? You’re just going to keep my knife because I won’t fuck you?”
“Non, I’m gonna keep the knife because I won it in a bet. One you agreed to.”
“Before I knew I was betting against a professional hustler.”
“Ah, well. We can’t all be perceptive.”
“You’re a real piece of work. I’ll bet you win all the girls that way, don’t you? Take something meaningful and turn it into a bargaining chip.”
“It’s really no different than you showing up here in that low-cut dress, is it? We all have our bargaining chips.”
“If you’re suggesting I wore this dress for you, perhaps you’re unaware that I all but exchanged numbers with your cousin Luc this morning.”
Ugh. That argument has absolutely no basis, and I’m not even sure what prompted it to fly out of my mouth, except for the knot of rage churning in my gut. I don’t even know his cousin, and I sure as hell didn’t know he was going to show up here tonight. This man has me so discombobulated, I’m literally spewing lies at this point.
He rolls his wide, muscled shoulders back, and I have to stifle a visual of my legs slung over them. The taunting images of those sharp, intelligent eyes studying me, as he brings me to an agonizingly slow climax, are just about enough to give me second thoughts, but I won’t give in. Not to this man who would likely devour my submission and leave nothing but raw, aching bones to spit out.
“If you’ll excuse me, chère, I need to get back to my game. I trust you know the way out.”
“Oh, I do.” The urge to scream tugs hard at my throat. Never has a man so calmly worked my nerves, while simultaneously making me question myself.
Watching him walk off with that naturally cocky swagger is the final slap to my face, and as my teeth grind jags of pain into my skull, I tromp back up those damn stairs, every step counting off the many times I’d have probably climaxed beneath the asshole.
The fact that he still wins, even after my rejection, is the most enraging part of it all, and by the time I push through the door, I’m one orgasmic count away from punching someone in the face. How convenient that the bouncer happens to step into my line of view at this very moment.
“I take it your meeting went well.”
“Look, Troll, I’m going to level with you. Y’all done pissed me off, so I suggest you back up, because you do not mess with an angry woman. Especially when you’ve stolen her beloved fucking knife.” Without another word, I slip beneath his outstretched arm, and hear him chuckle after me.
Asshole.
I’m a raging ball of fire, waiting to explode. Halfway to the truck, I pause, contemplating if I should go back in there and interrupt his game. “No,” I mutter to myself, taking a few more steps and stop again. “Yes, I absolutely should.” Twisting on my heel, I take a pathetic two-step march in the direction from where I just came, but the unyielding look on Troll Boy’s face brings me to a screeching stop.
A scream climbs the back of my throat, my hands balled into fists so tight, my nails dig into my palms.
I hate you, Thierry Bergeron. I hate you!
I want to spit those words in his face, but the asshole would probably laugh and say something seductive in that disgustingly sexy Valir accent he only seems to pull out when we’re alone. Like the hustling little charmer knows its disarming powers.
