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CHAPTERTWENTY
Honesty
“This isn’t the way to Hudson’s flat,” Kate points out as we’re driving along the motorway ten minutes later.
“Nope, it isn’t.”
“Beast…”
“Princess…” I counter, trying not to smirk as her irritation grows. Why does that get my dick so hard? I’ve never felt more attracted to anyone in my life, but it isn’t just her body I’m drawn to, it’s her. I’m drawn to her feistiness, her sharp tongue and her wit, her strength and her courage. I want to provoke her because her anger turns me on. She’s no wilting flower and I fucking adore that about her.
“You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” I reply, pressing on the accelerator as we speed along.
“This!” she yells, the anger I sensed earlier rearing its head. “You’ve ignored me for days. Barely spoke to me,lookedat me even. Then tonight you walk into Tales like a bear with a sore head, chucking everyone out so you can make a pass at me without anyone around to witness it. Is that what I am to you, a dirty little secret?”
Gripping the gear shift, I punch it into sixth gear as the speedometer pushes ninety. “Would you have preferred it if I made a pass at you in front of everyone?” I retort, weaving through the flow of traffic.
“At least it would’ve shown me you meant it,” she spits, reaching for her handbag and pulling out her phone. Pretty sure she’s messaging Hudson, which gets my goat no end.
“You think I’m fucking with you?” I snap back, more angry that she’s texting the one guy who makes me feel inadequate, not because of his looks or anything, but because he has Kate’s affection. It pisses me off.
“I think you don’t like it when a woman takes control.”
“That’s bullshit!” That’s the last thing I dislike. I love a strong woman. Always have.
“I initiated everything and you turned me down, leaving mehumiliated,” she says, clamping a hand over my mouth when I try to respond.
Rather than drag it away, I let her keep it pressed over my lips, sneaking my tongue out to lick her fingers. Out of the corner of my eye I see her shudder, but she keeps her hand in place, refusing to let me know I’ve affected her.
“Then when I do the same to you,” she continues. “You act like the meathead you are and do what the fuck you want rather than taking me to my best friend’s house so I can be with someone who actually gives a shit about me!”
Dropping her hand, she shifts in her seat, staring out of the window, and the guilt creeps in. I did humiliate her, but I hadn’t intended to. At that point I was in a state of fucking panic, knowing I was feeling things and not knowing what the fuck to do. I want to tell her that, but instead I make shit worse.
“I warned you over and over, Princess.”
“And yet youkeptflirting with me.”
“It was banter,” I bite back rather than telling her the truth. Which is the whole fucking point of tonight. Fuck, what is wrong with me? I keep digging my grave here. Her murderous gaze tells me I’m a hairsbreadth away from ruining shit between us forever.
She laughs bitterly and I feel her disappointment like a punch to the gut. “You were the one who held my fucking hands steady when Carter wanted me to shoot Saxon. You were the one who acted like a jealous boyfriend when I was dancing with John—”
“You mean Orlando,” I interrupt.
“Who-the-fuck-ever!” she shouts, continuing her tirade, which I fucking deserve by the way. “You were the one who wanted to stab the King at the dinner table when he looked at me the way he did. You were the one who said I looked beautiful when Carter just thought I looked like a whore. You were the one who hurt me because you weren’t brave enough to act, and now you expect me to just drop my knickers because you suddenly decide the time is right? Fuck you and fuck that!” she fumes, her whole body trembling now.
Fuck.This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
Blowing out a long breath, I ease my foot off the accelerator and slow the car down to a more road legal speed as we take the exit off the motorway and towards Camden Town. Chewing on my lip, I try to figure out what to say next. Because she’s fucking right. Everything she said is right.
“Where are we going?” she asks eventually, breaking the silence between us.
“To my tattoo shop.”
“Yourtattoo shop? You don’t own a tattoo shop,” she says.
“I do. I just don’t talk about it. I figured as I spend so much money covering my skin, I may as well buy a place and make use of the artists who run it for me,” I reply, side-eying her.
