Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. There it is again—that crack in the armor. He steps forward, eliminating the last bit of space between us.
“You want to know what I think?” His voice drops lower, vibrating in his chest. “I think you’re pushing me because no one else in your life has the balls to push back. Everyone else treats you with kid gloves. Poor little rich boy whose daddy doesn’t understand him. Whose friends are only there for what you can give them.”
His words cut close to the bone, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “And what about you? Why are you here if not for my father’s money?”
“I’m here because I made a promise to someone I respect.” His eyes bore into mine. “And unlike you, I understand what commitment means.”
“Bullshit,” I spit. “You’re here because you’re broken. Because the real world spit you out, and now you’re clinging to whatever scraps of control you can find.”
Gray’s hand moves so fast I barely see it coming. His fingers wrap around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. A warning. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, boy.”
My pulse jumps beneath his palm. The touch sends electricity racing down my spine, pooling hot and heavy in my groin. I should be terrified. Instead, I’m fucking thrilled.
“Then show me,” I whisper. “Show me what happens when Gray the perfect soldier loses control. Show me what you’re really like when you drop the act.”
His eyes darken, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of gray-blue remains. For a moment, we’re suspended in time, his hand on my throat, my breath coming in shallow pants.
Then something snaps.
His grip tightens, and suddenly I’m being lifted, my feet leaving the floor as he pins me against the wall. The impact knocks the air from my lungs. One of his hands remains around my throat, the other braced against the wall beside my head. His body presses against mine, solid and unyielding.
“Is this what you want?” he growls, his face inches from mine. “To see me lose it?”
I can’t answer. His grip isn’t tight enough to cut off my breathing completely, but it’s enough to make each breath a struggle. My head spins, partly from lack of oxygen, partly from the adrenaline flooding my system.
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he continues, his voice a harsh whisper against my ear. “Pushing and pushing, trying to get a reaction? Well, congratulations. You got one.”
My hands come up to grip his wrist, not trying to break free, just holding on. My legs dangle uselessly, toes barely brushing the floor. The pressure of his body against mine is overwhelming, his thigh inadvertently pressing against my growing erection.
Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. My lungs burn. I try to say his name, but all that comes out is a choked sound. Something shifts in his expression—awareness dawning, horrorreplacing rage. He releases me instantly, stepping back like I’ve burned him.
I slide down the wall, collapsing in an ungraceful heap on the floor. Air rushes back into my lungs in painful gasps, each breath a struggle. I cough, my hand coming up to rub my throat, feeling the phantom pressure of his fingers.
“Wyatt—” Gray starts, his voice thick with regret. “I didn’t mean—”
“Shut up,” I rasp, not looking up yet. I need a moment to process what just happened. To process my body’s reaction to it.
Because I’m hard. Painfully, embarrassingly hard, my cock straining against my zipper, a damp spot forming where I’m leaking precum into my boxers. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I look up finally, and my eyes lock onto the prominent bulge stretching the front of Gray’s pants. He’s hard too. The realization sends another jolt of arousal through me.
“Look at you,” I say, my voice still rough. “Finally showing your real face.”
Gray stands frozen, staring down at me with a mix of horror and something else. Something hungry. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Before I can second-guess myself, I lean forward, resting my cheek against his muscled thigh. I feel him tense beneath the touch, hear the sharp intake of his breath. Encouraged, I nuzzle against him, letting my face rub along the hard plane of his thigh.
“What are you doing?” His voice sounds strangled.
I look up, meeting his gaze through my lashes. “What does it look like?”
His throat works as he swallows. “Stop.”
But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t push me back. His eyes are fixed on my face, pupils blown wide with what can only be desire.
“Make me,” I challenge, continuing to rub my face against his leg. My hands come up to grip his thighs, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric of his pants. “You seem to like manhandling me. So do it.”
“You’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get me fired.”
