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“He stroked you,” Stan says between his teeth, not hearing me. “Like you’re his animal and not mine.”
“It was just a friendly touch. And you beat him up for it.”
A slight sneer grazes his mouth and he stretches his neck from side to side from tension. “I know. I held back. I wanted to kill him.”
Gasping, my eyes turn shimmery as I look up at Stan and despite me being in heels, he’s so tall that I have to crank my head. He’s always so patient with me, patient with everything and I have no idea where this sudden aggression is coming from.
“I don’t believe you. You’re not like that.”
“Wrong. I am exactly like that. If not worse.”
The words come out fast. Sharp. Like they’re truthful. Anger flares in me and I jerk my hand back, causing Stan to whirl around so fast that I don’t even have a chance to blink.
“What is it?” he asks, his eyes tightening. “Don’t you want to hold my hand anymore, unless I’m your perfect, well trained little Stan?”
Gasping, I look at him with wide eyes. Perfect? Is that what he thinks I want from him? Wrapping my arms around me, I murmur, “It’s the heels. They’re hurting me.”
That fervent expression on his face disappears and his eyes turn tender. He takes a step closer to me, then lifts me up on his back, his hands under my knees, my chin resting on his shoulder.
He smells so good. Familiar and exotic to me at the same time. We mold ourselves around each other as always. Fitting perfectly even after a heated argument, like our bodies know better than we do that we shouldn’t let anything come between us.
“Aren’t I heavy?” I whisper and his lips pull to the side, making him look charming. But I think I’ve learned by now that some Prince Charming’s don’t always have a dragon to slay on the outside. Sometimes that dragon is on the inside.
“Even if you were, I’d still carry you.”
Of course he would respond that way. Typical Stan to never make me feel bad about myself. And he’s carrying me like I’m light as a breeze, even though we’re moving up a steep street. Another man would have at least grunted by now. But not Stan.
“Is there anything you wouldn’t do for me?”
His grip around me tightens, like he isn’t too happy about where this conversation is going.
“Let you go.”
His answer sounds like it’s been formed in steel and fire. I swallow.
“You would if I asked you to.”
Underneath me, I feel him tense like he isn’t so sure of that and he slightly turns his head to the side, raising a brow in question.
“Would I?”
“I think you would,” I say, my voice suddenly trembling. “It’s not like you would drag me down to the basement and chain me there.”
Silence.
“Stan?” I say, tugging at him a little but I can’t see his face.
“What is it?”
“Did you hear what I said? You’re supposed to protest.” Vehemently so.
“Why are you asking me that stuff? Do you expect me to hurt you just because you saw me throw a simple punch?”
“Simple? You practically busted his whole face. And why can’t you just answer me?”
“I don’t like stupid questions.”
I twitch in annoyance at his uncompromising ways. “Put me down now.”
