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The question fuelled the fire even more. If he thought she was telling him anything about her sexual history, he was more deluded than she thought. Her hands fisted beside her before she knew it, her spine straightening.
"How badly do you want to get punched?" she growled out, her voice barely low enough to not be heard outside the door.
He didn't say a word, that amalgamation of lust and hate pure blaze in his eyes, his head tilting to a side as he kept his eyes on hers, his face completely bland of any expression.
Morana waited, for a word, for a move, for a wrong breath to tip her over and murder him. She was that close.
He didn't do a thing. Not a thing.
Just watched her with narrowed eyes.
And that tipped her o
ver.
"Go fuck yourself," she spit out and turned to the door, to open it and leave, humiliation churning through her stomach on the tail of everything else. She was trembling. Trembling. Trembling like her body couldn't contain anything anymore, as though she was a bomb ticking to its doom, ready to take down everything and everyone around her. Oh, if she was a bomb, she wanted to explode and take down this asshole first. Or maybe her father. And the creep at the table. It was a freaking line. And wasn't that her jolly life.
She almost turned to the door when in a split second, it happened.
His hands gripped her waist before she'd taken one step, picking her up with a kind of strength she'd never experienced, making her heart fall to her knees. She barely contained a yelp at the sudden movement, but the moment her feet were off the floor, he moved her like she weighed nothing more than a cushion, and put her on the granite counter in front of the mirror.
The cold granite hit the overheated skin of ass suddenly, making her hiss, the counter hard against his not-so-gentle deposition.
Her dress bunched up against her upper thighs in the motion, the cold granite against her exposed flesh making her shiver. His hands left her waist and the moment they did, she put her hands flat on the counter, a little behind her to maintain her sitting position and keep her balance. The action made her breasts push outwards, her legs slightly spread from the way he'd deposited her, with her dress almost above her thighs. She felt a flush crawl over her face at the wanton picture she made, never having displayed herself so carnally to anyone.
Her gaze locked with his as he stood two steps away from her, his eyes sharp on hers, before slowly going down her neck, her cleavage, her heaving breasts to the top of her thighs, all the way down to her toes in a slow, languid perusal. Her breasts got heavier, nipples hardening unabashedly as heat pooled even heavier in her belly, her breaths hastening.
She did her own perusal, her eyes roving over that hard, male chest she'd felt pressed against her so many times in the muted yellow lights in the room, the chest she'd seen bare just a day ago, the suit covering the hard muscles as the open collar exposed a strip of delicious male flesh that made her want to lick it, from the line of his pecs to the vein running at the side of his corded neck, right up to that chin, then that scar, and the mouth. God, why couldn't he have been some old, ugly, pot-bellied bastard with bad breath and worse smell and creepy eyes and a squeaky voice? But he wasn't. He was who he was, and she let herself see him, her eyes drifting lower and lower to below his waist.
And her breath hitched.
The front of his trousers bulged out, unashamed and unapologetic, tenting the fabric in a big way. Big. Bigger than Jackson. Much bigger.
And she felt a frisson of fear cool the lust. Fuck what had she gotten herself into? She'd never had sex like this, she was inexperienced and he was big, and he hated her.
Her eyes flew up to clash with his, doubts filling her.
Before she could blink, he closed the gap between them, his hands going straight to her thighs, parting them wide as he stepped between her legs, his face inches from hers, his eyes still holding that mix of sheer lust and utter hate, more than hate for just her. Was it for himself? For wanting her? Because lord knew she hated herself for wanting this. Wanting him.
His hips snapped to hers, her dress bunching up even higher, and her breath locked in her throat. She felt him, pressed into her, right against her core, his hard, hard erection rubbing deliciously against her bundle of nerves. And she was wet. Getting wetter with every rub of his length against her. At this rate, she'd leave a wet spot at the front of his pants, and that just wouldn't do.
And then another thought struck her.
"You have a condom, right?" she blurted out before she knew it. Even though she had measures, she could ride him bareback but she didn't trust him an inch, and she so did not want him spilling inside her.
He stilled, anger flaring in his eyes.
She grit her teeth, her fingers pressing into the cold granite. "Don't think for one second you're getting anywhere inside me without one."
One of his hands came up, circling the front of her neck like she had circled his moments ago. His grip was firm, just on the edge of threatening but not quite into the territory yet. He tilted her head up by pressing on her neck – his big, rough hand warm against her already hot neck – and a shiver traveled down her spine, suddenly making her realize how easy it would be for him to snap her neck. She'd seen him snap necks as normal people blinked. He could kill her, right there, in the ladies’ room of one of the poshest restaurants in town, and given his strength, she knew she wouldn't be able to stop him.
Her anger crackled.
"Do you?" she demanded, keeping her fear locked deep inside her, never blinking away from his hypnotic gaze.
"Are you a virgin?" he asked, his voice soft, lethal, whiskey over her senses, making her heady. And it was a sensible question. For once.
"No," she told him, raising her eyebrows, daring him to utter a word.
