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His hands curl into fists. For several beats, his muscles are so visibly taut, I think he’s going to pick up the table and throw it across the room. In degrees, he relaxes, though when he speaks to me again, his voice is a rasp. “I will not touch you right away.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“If you knew the effort it is taking me not to fuck you on all fours right now, it would be good enough, little girl.”
I react as if I’ve been slapped.
Not because I’m offended, but because the imagery is crude and base…and it causes heat to tumble around in my middle. That warmth travels down, down, until the sheer panel I’m using to cover my womanhood feels embarrassingly flimsy. Can he see the moisture beginning to coat my folds? Why am I reacting this way to a violent man?
“Fine,” I whisper. “Not right away.”
Because what choice do I have? I’ve already established I can’t make it out the door without being stopped and potentially making him madder.
On unsteady legs, I cross the room and sit down in the chair he indicates, our eyes meeting over my shoulder, his hands gripping the chair back so tight, the piece of furniture must be on the verge of snapping.
“I’m not used to holding back my impulses, Posy,” he says thickly, leaning down to inhale just above the curve of my neck. “But you make me want to learn.”
My throat is flexing too dramatically to speak. “Sit down and start talking.”
Until he begins to circle the table, I don’t realize how my seated position makes it even harder to hide my flesh. When I cross my legs, my sex is visible from below. When I uncross them and cover myself with the tutu, the position looks indecent, legs spread, hand cupping the juncture of my thighs. He pulls a chair over and sits down directly in front of me, watching me fight with indecision, his attention hot on my core, the stiffness jutting up behind his fly. He manspreads, unabashed by his aroused state, jaw flexing.
I have no choice but to cross my legs and allow a peek at my private flesh. “A gentleman would offer me something to cover myself.”
“I am not a gentleman.” The sound of his heavy breathing fills the room. “You make me want to learn that, too. But a hundred years of lessons couldn’t make me polite around that perfect little cunt of yours. Would be a waste of time.”
It’s a challenge to remain still when I have the sudden need to squeeze my legs together. To run my palms up and over my sensitive breasts. But the moves would be too telling and I sense he would be dragging me back to the mattress in seconds if I let on that I’m…that he…arouses me against my will. “Tell me why you hate women,” I whisper.
“They lie. You all lie.”
“Men and woman lie an equal amount.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I never lie.”
“Then you’re an exception to the rule.”
He leans forward, those light blue eyes laser focused. “Do you lie?”
My gut reaction is to say no, because I want to take away his false perception of women, but he would know. He’d see through me. And I find I want to be one hundred percent honest with this man. I want to be an exception to the rule for him, too. “I have told lies. Small ones. Mostly to your brother.”
His right eye ticks. “I no longer wish for you to spend time with my brother.”
“That’s going to be difficult, since he’s my ballet coach.”
Smith’s fist slams down onto the table. For a moment, he seethes—and then he lunges to his feet, flipping the table over entirely. “What lies do you tell him?” he shouts.
“How did this conversation become about me?”
“What lies, Posy?”
“Mostly about what I eat,” I blurt. “Ballerinas, especially principal dancers, need to maintain a certain appearance. I’m not sure who decided that was true, but managers and chorographers are very unforgiving about anything they decide is an imperfection. But I love chicken sandwiches from Wendy’s.” How ridiculous that my face should be piping hot right now. “So, um…yes, I lie sometimes and claim I’ve had a spinach salad for dinner, when I really had a crispy chicken combo meal. Sue me, you know?”
Smith is very silent. Frowning at me thoughtfully beneath a knit brow.
“I lied once about having my period, so I could get out of rehearsal. I…just couldn’t go.”
“Why not?”
“One of the other dancers…I guess you could call her my rival. Baker overheard her talking badly about me and I just…” Heat presses in behind my eyes. “I guess I just needed a little break. So I lied. I lied and climbed out my window and went for a walk. All day.”
