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“I’m not complaining. I always knew the cat distribution system worked in mysterious ways.”
“You insufferable, egotistical, pig-headed—” Frothing. She’s frothing with rage as she mirrors my pose, crossing her arms over her chest, too. It plumps her tits nicely but, ever the gentleman, I keep my eyes up and on hers.
“Now, now,” I almost let out the laugh that’s bubbling up in my chest. “It’s rude to call me names in my own house. What if my mother heard you call her precious boy all those vile things?”
My mother would probably laugh her ass off. She’d ask why I deserved it and, while I enjoy pissing off Tristan Grant—enjoy seeing her eyes flash like hazard flares and her cheeks flush with rage—I’m not sure what I did this time. Or what I ever did to make her react like I just dragged my sock-covered feet across a few hundred feet of carpet before giving her one hell of a static shock.
“Your mother?” Apparently, that got through to her. She frowns, lips twisting sideways as if she’s chewing on the tender inside of her cheek. Not that I’m staring at her mouth.
“The woman who let you in,” I say, and Tristan looks away.
“That was your mother?”
I nod. “She lives with me.”
A very unladylike snort. “Isn’t that what neck-bearded losers say when they still live in the basement?” A hand comes up to cover her mouth. “Ohmygawd forget I said that. It was incredibly rude.”
I drag a hand up my throat and scratch at the stubble I haven’t shaved today. It rasps under my touch and when Tristan meets my eyes again, I grin wider.
“You might have me on the neck beard,” I say, “but my big boy room isn’t in the basement. It’s on the second floor. Wanna see it?”
“No.” Her glare is scalding hot, but the blush is still there and her throat bobs as she swallows.
I push off the wall to step closer and I watch her shoulders come up around her ears. This woman is so tense she could turn coal into diamonds with her bare hands. It’s half the reason I fight with her. No one should be this wound up. Not without good reason.
I could give her a reason. A toe-curling, sheet-gripping, name-gasping reason.
No, I couldn’t. Not without risking bodily harm. My kitty cat has claws, and she’d happily sharpen them on my spleen. Good thing I like the risk.
“All you have to do is ask,” I say. “It’s okay to give into your overwhelming attraction to me. I can’t help my animal magnetism.”
Tristan mutters something under her breath that I can’t quite make out, but the flashing eyes are exactly what I was going for. It makes sense; I suppose. I play at an elite level of a brutal sport. Of course I enjoy playing with fire and risking dismemberment. I’m in some form of pain almost every hour of every day. Some part of me has to enjoy that at least a bit.
I know I’m a sick puppy when I lean into her personal space to say, “I won’t tell anyone, kitty cat.”
She snarls this time. An actual growl of sound paired with a curl of her red-painted lips. Heat floods my body, a familiar weight settling low in my abdomen. It would be easy to lean forward and cover her mouth with mine. I want to. If for no other reason than to feel her fire against my skin. I wonder if she’d bite, draw blood, prick me with her nails, or if she’d melt into the wall of my chest.
As it turns out, her nailsaresharp, but instead of pressing into the muscles over my shoulders or tracing the length of my back, she has one finger shoved into my sternum as she practically hisses her response.
“You. Absolute. Bastard.” A poke punctuates each word. “You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.”
Actually my eyes are hazel. I open my mouth to tell her so because apparently I lack any form of self-preservation with this woman.
“Don’t even start,” she hisses. “Iknowthey’re Hazel. It’s an expression.”
Seeing this woman spitting mad is doing things to me. I’m torn between shifting my hips so she can’t see what things I mean, and wondering if that will draw her attention down. Am I ashamed of being attracted to her? No, not at all. Am I aware that despite all my teasing, despite her flushed cheeks and blown pupils, despite the way her breath catches at my flirting, she has slammed every single door closed as I cracked it open? Yes. Very. The tent in my pants takes our interactions from casual flirtation to the very edge of a line that I refuse to cross without explicit permission.
I decide to go for a distraction as I tug the hem of my shirt out to obscure her view. “It’s okay kitty cat. I know you can’t help but stare into my eyes every chance you get. Obviously you know they’re hazel.”
I open my eyes wide and tip my head down so our gazes can lock into place. I’m sure I look like Quinn’s students when she makes them draw self-portraits, trying to see their eye color in the hand mirrors she gives them. The fury is still there in Tristan’s eyes. It’s scorching in its intensity, but her pupils expand and contract and I swear there’s a small amount of amusement trying to break through. I will myself not to reach for the threads and tug until she unravels. I had adjusted without being caught. That was the only goal. Now it’s time to let her say her piece. She came here for a reason.
“Victor.”
It’s supposed to be a warning, but the way she breathes my name into the inches between us has my dick twitching and my heart hammering against the cage of my ribs. It sounds like an invitation, and I want to accept.
It’s not though.
I step back and run a hand through my hair before opting for my regularly-scheduled, easygoing grin.
