AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He turns away from me and presses the elevator call button. “This is probably for the best. The more I get to know you, the less I like you.”
His back, the indifference in his voice, his dismissal, the truth of his words all rush at me, and I erupt.
"You don’t get to act like I’m a dirty whore just because I don’t think the act of fucking has to be some sort of emotional exchange. It’s a physical act. You can turn your nose up at me as much as you’d like. But we both know that you would fuck me the instant you though I’d let you.” I shout at his back.
"Not for all the tea in China," he returns. His easy dismissal, this casual rebuff is more humiliating than I can bear.
His voice is so cold, so cutting that I can’t stop the gasp that escapes me. The fact that he won't even look at me is making me angry to the point of irrationality. I want him to look at me again. I want him to touch me again. I want him to want me again.
"Fucking look at me when you're talking to me."
Before I can think better of it, I shove him. I’m surprised at myself. I haven't lifted a hand to another human being - not counting the fights I had with my sisters when we were kids - in my entire life.
I expect him to yell at me, maybe even shove me back. He doesn't even turn around.
"No. It’s looking at you that got me here in the first place. I’ve seen enough.”
And even though he’s not looking at me, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Lacking
The elevator dings its arrival. He steps inside. Without stopping to think, I do, too.
I'm unwilling to let him have the last word. He can’t ignore me.
"Are you following me?" he says as he presses the button for the top floor penthouse. He still hasn't looked at me. The elevator begins its ascent in a soundless rush. And with every floor we pass, I feel like I'm watching the sand drain from an hourglass. When he gets off this elevator, I know I probably won't see him again. He's really angry with me. And I hate how much that bothers me.
"Are you scared of me? I mean, you can't even bring yourself to look at me," I say to his profile, trying to provoke some sort of reaction from him.
“Scared of you?” He throws his head back and chuckles. I stare at his profile. My eyes travel down his sharp jawline and down his strong, tanned neck, wishing he’d meet my eyes.
His laughter stops abruptly, and he turns so quickly that I don't see it coming.
I hear my mother’s voice saying, "Be careful what you ask for, you might just get it." His eyes are ice cold, his luscious mouth set in a firm, stern line.
And I want to weep and beg him to smile at me again. I want the warmth back, I want him to laugh again, even if it's at my expense. Anything but that cold, disdainful stare. I watch the small muscle that hinges his strong jaw tremble as we watch each other, trying to see the truth behind the anger and hurt.
The silence is like a scalpel on the festering boil of my shame - it pours out of me. I’m drowning in it. And he’s bearing witness to it all.
"What are you looking at?" I ask. I know I sound defensive, and as if they have a mind of their own, my arms cross over my chest.
"I don't know," he says quietly before he turns back to face the elevator doors.
My blood rushes in my ears as I step toward him. His eyes cut in my direction at my approach, but he still doesn't turn to face me.
"Really? You seemed to know when you were shoving your cock into my hand on the plane." I say softly, silkily.
His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, but still he won't look at me.
I step toward him again and put a hand on his arm. I'm not prepared for how the touch sends a whole herd of elephants thundering through my blood.
He inhales sharply at my touch, and his head swings slowly in my direction.
"What are you doing?" His voice is low with warning, his eyes trained on my hand.
I step closer, and just then the elevator door dings. A crowd of almost ten people step on. They're all talking once, and they crowd around us, forcing me closer to him. Their raucous laughter provides a perfect backdrop to the absolute silence inside my head.
I look up at him through my lashes. He's staring straight ahead, the cool, enigmatic expression in his eyes is betrayed by the harsh rise and fall of his chest.
I slip my hand up his arm and round his well-muscled shoulder. I pause and glance at him again. He's closed his eyes, his indecision and anger stretched taught across his face. But he doesn't say anything, he doesn't move as my hand travels down from his shoulder to caress his pectoral muscle. He flinches as my cool hand touches his heated, cotton clad chest.
