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“And what is that?”
“Have you ever heard of the suspension bridge effect? It’s when people experience psychological responses related to fear, but they mislabel them as romantic arousal. The actual term is called misattribution of arousal, I think.”
His fingers stroke the skin of my stomach in a circular motion, and he hums, “Let me guess. Your busy little brain was thinking of that as a way out of actually wanting me?”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t want you. I told you. My reaction to you is probably me misjudging fear and anxiety as arousal. Think about it. Every time you touched me, I was scared in some way.”
The more I talk about it, the more it makes sense. There’s no way I’d willingly want this bastard who lacks a human bone in his body.
“Aren’t you the smart one?” He pulls on my top and I crash against his chest with a yelp. He lifts his other hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture seems to be doting but feels threatening. “So what if it is fear? The point is that you want me.”
“It’s not real. It’s an illusion.”
“If that makes you sleep better at night, let’s say it is.”
“I could want someone else if I feel scared in their presence or see them after being scared.”
“Believe me, little rabbit, that won’t be happening. Not unless you want some splashes of his blood on this flawless skin. Though I’m sure it’d look pretty, don’t you think?”
I shudder, trying and failing to prevent that image from forming in my head. This wanker knows all the right buttons to push.
“You really don’t care that I don’t want you for you as a person?” I realize that I’m provoking him, and I don’t know what’s come over me. I just know that a weird sense of courage has grabbed hold of me today.
I’m no longer the scaredy-cat Glyn—that didn’t get me anywhere—so I might as well embrace the change.
“You don’t want me as a person, huh?”
“No. You’re not my type.”
He pauses before stroking my stomach again. “And what’s your type?”
“Someone nice.”
“I can be nice.”
“Yeah, right.”
His voice lowers to a shiver-inducing range. “I gave you time like you asked, and it was a stretch on my part since, and I repeat, I am not a giver. So if that’s not considered nice, maybe I should retract my promise and be the opposite of nice.”
“Don’t…” This arsehole is a major headache. I can never win against him.
“Does that mean I’m nice?”
“You can be,” I mutter.
“Look at that. I’m suddenly your type.” I glare up him and I’m met with a low chuckle. “You’re so adorable, I could eat you up.”
“I’m not edible.”
“Judging by the taste of your sweet little cunt, you most definitely are.”
Heat rises to my neck and ears and it takes everything in me to keep staring into his gleaming eyes. The bastard is enjoying this. Probably way too much.
“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten yourself killed due to how infuriating you are.” I huff.
He kisses the top of my head. “That’s because I know how to fight.”
“Can we go?” I start to step away from him and he surprisingly lets me go.
