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“I always look like that.”
“Trust me, you don’t.” There was his intense stare that made me feel like his property even when he didn’t touch me. And then there was this look…like he wanted to strangle me. “How long are you going to be angry?”
“Until you apologize.”
“Apologize?” I asked incredulously. “I didn’t do anything wrong—”
“You disrespected me.”
“Disrespected you? You aren’t my boyfriend, Bartholomew—”
“I’m your man. We established this already.”
I set my purse on the floor because this conversation just got real. “We’re fucking. That’s it. Don’t you dare make this into a relationship, because that’s the last thing I want—”
“I said nothing about a relationship. But as long as I’m the man you’re sleeping with, you’re mine. As long as I’m faithful to you, then I’m yours. That means I respect you and you respect me. Wearing another man’s shirt to bed right after I fucked you all night is a goddamn slap in the face.” He stepped closer to me. “Do I look like a man who gets slapped in the face?”
I held my ground and didn’t step back, but it was hard not to. My heart was beating so fast it was like a speeding train. I wasn’t sure if I was terrified, nervous, or even aroused. Maybe it was all of the above.
“Answer me.”
“No,” I said quickly.
“Then apologize.”
I held his gaze, refusing to cave.
“Now.”
“No.”
He cocked his head slightly, his eyes angry. “Apologize, or I walk away.”
Shit.
He waited, standing over me like a skyscraper.
I didn’t want to cave. Didn’t want to admit defeat. But I knew he didn’t make idle threats—and I couldn’t lose this man. “I’m sorry.” I said it so quietly that both of us could barely hear it.
“On your knees.”
“Excuseme—”
“Get on your knees and apologize to me.”
“You’re a fucking asshole—”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “Now, do it.”
A silent standoff ensued. He stared hard. I stared back.
He wouldn’t give me ground. Not an inch. Not a goddamn centimeter.
With pure self-loathing, I lowered myself to the floor.
His eyes intensified as he relished his victory.
“I’m sorry.”There. Done.
