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He runs his gaze down my features, my chest, down to my toes, then yawns.
The hell!I will not let him provoke me. Will not. "Like what you see?" I jut out my chin.
"Sorry, you’re not my type." He slides a hand into the pocket of those perfectly cut pants, stretching it across that heavy bulge.
Heat curls low in my belly.
Not fair, that he could afford a wardrobe that clearly shouts his status and what amounts to the economy of a small third-world country. A hot feeling stabs in my chest.
He reeks of privilege, of taking his status in life for granted.
While I’ve had to fight every inch of the way. Hell, I am still battling to hold onto the last of my equilibrium.
"Last chance—" I wiggle my fingers, from where I am sprawled out on the floor at his feet, "—to redeem yourself…"
"You have me there." He places the glass on the counter, then bends and holds out his hand. The hint of discolored steel at his wrist catches my attention. Huh?
He wears a cheap-ass watch?
That's got to bring down the net worth of his presence by more than 1000% percent. Weird.
I reach up and he straightens.
I lurch back.
"Oops, I changed my mind." His lips curl.
A hot burning sensation claws at my stomach. I am not a violent person, honestly. But Smirky Pants here, he needs to be taught a lesson.
I swipe out my legs, kicking his out from under him.
Sinclair
My knees give way, and I hurtle toward the ground.
What the—? I twist around, thrust out my arms. My palms hit the floor. The impact jostles up my elbows. I firm my biceps and come to a halt planked above her.
A huffing sound fills my ear.
I turn to find my whippet, Max, panting with his mouth open. I scowl and he flattens his ears.
All of my businesses are dog-friendly. Before you draw conclusions about me being the caring sort or some such shit—it attracts footfall.
Max scrutinizes the girl, then glances at me.Huh?He hates women, but not her, apparently.
I straighten and my nose grazes hers.
My arms are on either side of her head. Her chest heaves. The fabric of her dress stretches across her gorgeous breasts. My fingers tingle; my palms ache to cup those tits, squeeze those hard nipples outlined against the—hold on, what is she wearing? A tunic shirt in a sparkly pink... and are those shoulder pads she has on?
I glance up, and a squeak escapes her lips.
Pink hair surrounds her face.Pink? Who dyes their hair that color past the age of eighteen?
I stare at her face.How old is she?Un-furrowed forehead, dark eyelashes that flutter against pale cheeks. Tiny nose, and that mouth—luscious, tempting. A whiff of her scent, cherries and caramel, assails my senses. My mouth waters.What the hell?
She opens her eyes and our eyelashes brush. Her gaze widens. Green, like the leaves of the evergreens, flickers of gold sparkling in their depths. "What?" She glowers. "You're demonstrating the plank position?"
"Actually," I lower my weight onto her, the ridge of my hardness thrusting into the softness between her legs, "I was thinking of something else, altogether."
