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Annabeth
I hate Cohen. I hate everything about him. I hate that his raspy chuckle and the filthy suggestion to ride his dick on the way to class makes my body betray me.
It needs to get with the program. Cohen Decker? He’s the enemy and no amount of dirty talk will change things.
Another chuckle rolls through him and I press my thighs together, ignoring the throb of heat.
Of course the devil would be a sinfully attractive asshole. It’s not fair.
Cohen moves into my personal space in one quick move, getting right up in my face. He clenches one hand in my hair so that I can’t back away and grazes his nose against my cheek. His hot breath puffs across my lips as he locks his other arm across my lap.
I struggle to keep my eyes from widening; I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s getting to me.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Cohen promises in a rough, wicked voice.
You’ll have to make me. Because I’ll never be yours willingly.
I know better than to stoop to his level and play his mind games, but I forgot myself when he goaded me with Charity.
Tipping my chin up as much as his hold allows, I level him with a cold stare. I hate him.
Cohen loosens his fist in my hair and skims his palm down my face, cupping my jaw, swiping his thumb over my cheek. He flicks his gaze own to my mouth and pulls at my lip with the pad of his thumb. He meets my eyes again.
I’m surrounded by him, the sharp scent of his expensive cologne and his warmth bombarding me.
My breath catches in my throat. Cohen leans in. Is he going to—?
He stops before kissing me with a hair’s breadth between us. A beat passes. A yellow cab lays on the horn and a bike messenger cuts through traffic, nearly side swiping the town car. Cohen snickers and leans back, leaving me cold without his body heat invading my senses.
“Not today. Let’s save the kissing for the wedding.”
I swallow. My body doesn’t know what it wants. I’m torn between chasing him to his side of the car to claim that missed kiss and tucking and rolling into New York traffic. I should jump out of the car. The last thing I want is to give Cohen the satisfaction of kissing me after he stole my first one.
Cohen turns me into a complete mess with a few choice words and his devil’s grin.
Mustering all of my boarding school etiquette to save face, I smooth a strand of hair into place. The car rolls to another stutter stop. We can’t get to the Columbia campus fast enough so I can get as far away from Cohen as possible.
I miss the days when we were younger. Things were simpler then. He was one of the few childhood friends I was allowed to play with. I remember he was still a little shit back then. Once he pushed me into the mud in Central Park while something distracted our French au pairs. All because I wanted to play with his fire truck.
We were still inseparable. We had to be since our fathers were in each other’s pockets. It was either get along or be bored out of our minds while the adults conducted business.
That all stopped when he was twelve and I was eleven. He always lorded it over my head that he was six months older, like it made him superior because he reached milestones first. He was a big kid, way taller than me. I was a late bloomer.
Once again, Cohen had pushed me down.
Except, instead of letting me up, Cohen had jumped on top of me, holding me on the ground. I remember the way he stared at me with wide eyes. He squeezed my shoulders. There were freckles on his nose and his hair was long, overdue for a cut. It touched my forehead when he swooped down and kissed me—my first kiss.
He didn’t ask, he just took.
That’s how bullies operate. Cohen never changed, so I stopped hanging around him. I would choose mindless boredom than be his friend.
I pretend he wasn’t my first kiss. He doesn’t get to keep that, too.
Cohen’s still a bully. Only now instead of pushing girls into the mud, he likes to swoop in for a subtle attack. His favorite is to whisper in my ear so I’m the only one that knows the kinds of filthy things he says to me.
Everyone around us thinks he’s being sweet, since we’re promised to each other. But Cohen’s no different from my father. He doesn’t care about me—he sees me as his toy to show off.
At last, the town car nears the campus. I squeeze the straps of my saddle bag, my whole body tense with the eagerness of escaping this car.
Marrying Cohen means accepting what my father chooses for me. I refuse.
I’m the one in control of my future.
