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Chapter eight
“No.” I slammed my hand against the window for emphasis, then winced because, once again, this man had made me lose it. If I was being honest, I’dlost itabout two hours ago when I realized Grey was right. There was no way out. Even if I got desperate enough to jump, I couldn’t open the windows. They all had little, white plastic alarms on the top.
Yeah. I’d checked.
Chandler didn’t even flinch at the sound of my palm slapping the glass. Or at the way my breath hissed between my teeth when I realized thatdamn that hurt.He simply kept walking up the stairs with his hands in his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world.
And I followed him. “It’s nottime for bed. It’s notgoodnight, Princess,” I said, imitating his detached tone. “Not until you answer my questions.”
He didn’t turn around. It was as if I wasn’t even talking to him, as though I weren’t in the room at all.
I kept following, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up to him. My lungs were tight, and I could practically see the oxygen depleting around me with every breath I took—or at least that was how it felt. “Or let me call my father.”
He reached the open loft at the top of the stairs and kept walking.
I couldn’t catch my breath.
Why couldn’t I just catch my freaking breath?How was I supposed to stay strong when it hurt to even breathe?
“Or tell me whether or not my brother is okay.”Please let Liam be okay. Tears blurred my vision as I followed him to a hallway, but I blinked them away, refusing to break.
“Or here’s a thought—you could just let me go.” I raised my voice even though I knew it would most likely end up bouncing off his back. I was grasping, and I knew it. But I had to try. It was like I had fallen into an empty grave and was looking for a rope.
I just needed a rope.
He spun around, his jaw tightening as he clenched his teeth. The fire in his eyes made my hair stand on end. “My bad.” He patted his chest with his hand. “Language barrier and all. Let me speak slowly so that you’ll understand.”
Language barrier? What an arrogant ass.
“Screw you, dickhead. I speak English.” The only difference was our accents, not our words.
He laughed like that amused him, then started walking toward me, forcing me to move out of his way. “I don’t give a single fuck about your money.” He took a step in my direction. “You’re not calling your father because it won’t do any good.”
I took another step back, focused on taking slow, steady breaths.
Anger—or something close to it—radiated from every pore in his body as he took another two steps forward, forcing me to move away from him until my back pressed against a wall. “And if you were smart, you’d be thanking me right now fornotletting you go instead of asking a million useless questions.”
This asshole.I was smart. I read a book a day, graduated in the top three percent of my class, and predicted the plot twist in nine out of ten thriller movies.
I was smart, dammit.
So, why was my brain nothing but mush right now?
All I could process was how incredibly close he was and how his closeness made my heart race.
Why did he have to smell so good?
He placed his palm just above my head, bracing himself on the wall, and leaned in. “Your brother is fine.” He grinned, but nothing about it was friendly. I almost dared to call it cruel. “He’s probably balls deep in some tight little cunt right now, not giving you a single thought.” His breath danced across my face, heated with anger and hints of alcohol.
Those weren’t the words of a man who grew up suffocated by the boundaries of proper etiquette. Those were the words of a man who knew his way around a woman’s body, a man who would slam her against a wall and fill her with his cock while telling her to say his name.
My chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. My nipples hardened under my sundress, and by the way his gaze immediately dropped to my chest, I had no doubt he noticed. Embarrassed heat flushed my skin. My mind raced a mile a minute, stunned at my body’s reaction to a complete stranger. Years of untapped sexual tension threatening to explode. That was the only reasonable explanation.
I wasn’t a prissy, inexperienced prude. I grew up with Liam Radcliffe, the Playboy Prince, as a brother. The things I’d seen and heard would make the cut of an amateur porn flick.
I wasn’t celibate by choice. I was celibate out of obligation. On my eighteenth birthday, I lost my virginity to the palace guard I’d been dating. The next day, I found out I was engaged. I had to not only break up with the guard but threaten his job if he told a soul. Prince Alexander expected a virgin bride, and my father would have died if he found out what I’d done. It was sloppy and quick and nothing like I’d always imagined it would be. Since then, I never had the urge to risk giving myself to anyone like that again. I’d never felt desire tingling in the bottom of my belly and pooling between my thighs. I kept to my romance books and battery-operated toys, convinced there wasn’t a man out there who could pleasure me any better than I pleasured myself. As far as I knew, men with filthy mouths and skilled hands were all fictional. They didn’t exist.
Now, here was Chandler, leaning over me, his scent wrapping around me and making me tingle in forbidden places. And his words… his words would have made a good girl blush, but I was the curious rebel who wanted more. More closeness. More of his hot breath on my skin. More words spilling from the mouth of a man who had the kind of voice that was made for dirty talk.
