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“What makes you think I want to tell you now? Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I like you this way.”
My chest heaves up and down in an erratic rhythm. He’s not even looking at me. All his attention is on my breasts and… the scar. He doesn’t break eye contact from it like he’s a child who’s found a new favourite toy.
He watches intently with that slight furrow in his thick brows. His suffocating interest makes me feel even more exposed than when he ripped my shirt open.
“I’ll do it,” I blurt. “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”
His smokey eyes finally slide up to mine as he tilts his head.
It’s a dangerous tactic, but it’s the only way to swipe his attention from my scar.
“Apologise,” he says with a casualty that negates his blackening eyes and the torturous swipe of his thumb on my nipple.
“Apologise for what?”
“For threatening me.”
Hot fury whooshes through my veins like a fast-spreading fire.
Enough.
I’m not taking his entitled shit anymore.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to apologise to me! You ruined my life for two years for no reason and you’re now holding me against my will.”
“Hmm, for no reason.” He repeats with a casualty that kills me. “Is that what you think?”
Nope. No. I’m not breaking my rule. I won’t try to understand bullies.
Not now.
Not ever.
I wiggle against him, stomping my feet and groaning with pent up frustration.
“You might want to stop, Frozen.”
“Screw. You,” I grunt, willing all my strength to get me out of his hold.
“Keep struggling, and you’ll have to take care of this.” He pushes his hips into me. Something pokes against the softness of my belly.
My eyes widen, and I go completely still.
He’s… hard.
His usual bored expression is gone. The star, perfect player is gone, too.
Instead, there’s this dark spark of sadism.
He gets off on my struggle. No. Scratch that. He gets off on seeing me helpless.
The arsehole is turned on by my weakness.
Is he... a full-blown sociopath?
“You’re sick,” The words leave my mouth in a haunted whisper.
He lifts a shoulder. “Could be.”
