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“Her friend seems to want to bounce on your cock.”

I tilt my head. “What can I say? I’m wanted.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me. I hold my ground because some suicidal part of me wants to see what happens.

His gaze drags over my face, then he catches my wrist. My breath snags before I can stop it.

“Come here.” He starts leading me out of the sitting room.

I dig my heels in after three steps. “What are you doing?”

He glances back at me over his shoulder. “Removing you from public view unless you want to get fucked in front of your sister.”

We move through the hallway quickly, past old portraits of dead people who would’ve probably had strong feelings about the yakuza heir dragging me through my own house by the wrist like a misbehaving spouse.

I glare at the back of his head. “Arrogant.”

He opens my bedroom door without breaking stride, then he pulls me inside.

I barely have time to turn before he shoves me back onto the bed, knees hitting the mattress before the rest of me follows. I catch myself on my hands and twist around, glaring up at him. “What,” I say, breath a little thinner than I want it to be, “is your problem?”

He steps closer, and I shift backward on the bed.

“My problem,” he licks his lips, “is that I walked in and found some sweet little thing wanting to fuck you.”

“You can’t possibly be jealous of Hana.”

His mouth twitches, but there’s no humor in it. “I am.”

I prop myself up more fully against the headboard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking rattled even though he shoved me onto a bed three seconds ago and is currently glaring at me like he wants to bite through my throat.

“Do you want her?”

I laugh straight in his face. “Hana? Are you serious?”

“Answer.”

“No.”

“Would you have let her touch you?” His thumb is still at my jaw, and the answer rises up before I can pretty it into something safer. “No.”

His eyes darken. “Why not?”

Because I don’t want her hands.

Because I know what your hands feel like.

Because now that I’ve had you in my bed and your mouth on mine and your unbearable care in all the wrong places, everyone else feels like static.

I don’t say any of that.

Instead I sneer. “Maybe I’m picky.”

He inclines his head until I can see myself reflected in the black of his pupils. His expression remains unnaturally composed, but when he speaks, his voice feels antiseptic, stripped of emotion and all the more lethal for it.

“Picky.”