Page 10 of Twisted Tate

I straighten slowly, my dress falling back into place. My face is burning. Men don’t tell me to stop. Men don’t ever tell me no.

“You aren’t the first woman to try that approach to avoid the inevitable.” He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, watching me over the rim. “You’re better at it than most, I’ll give you that. But that shit’s not going to work on me.”

“You don’t want me?” I hate how small my voice sounds. I motion to his crotch. “Your dick says otherwise.”

“I never said I didn’t.” He sets his glass down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. The position puts his face level with my stomach, and he looks up at me with eyes that make me forget how to fucking think. “I watched you suck a man’s cock in a hallway tonight, and I wanted to rip his throat out for being the one in your mouth. So don’t ask me if I want you. We both know the fucking answer.”

My thighs clench together. I can’t help it.

“But I don’t fuck women who are trying to manipulate me,” he continues. “That performance you just did? The voice, the walk, the way you were about to drop to your knees like a good little girl? I’ve seen it before. I know what it looks like when a woman is using her pussy as a weapon.”

He stands up, and suddenly I’m reminded of just how fucking tall he is. He towers over me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. The tattoo on his neck is visible now, black ink that disappears under his collar, and I want to trace it with my tongue.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“I’ll fuck you when you actually want it,” he says, his voice dropping low enough to make heat spread between my legs. “When that pussy is wet because the need is so great the only thing that will ease the ache is to be fucked by me, not because you think it’ll get you out of answering my questions.” He reaches out and traces one finger along my jaw. Those green eyes stay locked on mine, and I can’t look away. “And when you get to that point—and you will—you’re going to beg me for it, baby girl. Do you understand?”

I can’t speak. I can’t fucking breathe.

He drops his hand and steps back. “Until then, sit down. We’re not done talking.”

I stand there for a long moment, frozen in place. My face is hot. My whole body is hot. I’m embarrassed from the sting of the rejection, but so turned on I can feel how wet my panties are.

He told me no. He told me I was going to beg. And instead of being pissed off—instead of wanting to slap that smug look off his face—my body is responding like he just offered my body everything it’s never had.

This isn’t how it works. I’m the one who uses sex as a weapon. I’m the one who stays in control. That little bit of control is all I have to balance the awful things that I have to face in the moments when I have no control over what happens to me.

But I want him. I actually fucking want him, and the odds of me begging are growing higher by the minute.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I lower myself into the chair across from him on shaky legs. I don’t trust my voice, so I pick up my whiskey and take a long drink, buying myself time to figure out what the fuck just happened.

“Better,” he says, settling back onto the couch. The bastard looks pleased with himself. “Now. Let’s talk about your father’s operation.”

I want to throw my drink in his face. I want to climb into his lap and make him take back every word he just said. I want to run out into the dark woods and take my chances with the bears.

Instead, I take another sip of whiskey and prepare to lie my ass off.

The next hour is going to be a chess match, and so far I’m losing.

“Who handles your father’s logistics?” he asks.

“I don’t know what that means.”

He doesn’t believe me, but he explains anyway. And I don’t require a fucking explanation.

“It means who moves the product. Who arranges transport. Who makes sure the girls get from point A to point B without anyone noticing.”

I feel sick at how casually he says it. The girls. Like they’re inventory. Like they’re not people.

Like I’m not one of them.

“I told you that I don’t know anything about his business.” My hand twitches toward my mouth. I redirect, reaching for my whiskey instead.

“You’re lying.” He says it like he’s commenting on the weather. “You flinch every time I mention the girls. Your pupils dilate. Your breathing changes. You know exactly what happens to them.”

Fuck. He’s reading me like a book.