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“Stop.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
I shake my head.
He laughs outright, and my shoulders curl in defensively when I should be shoving the arrogant asshole away because of all things, I feel hurt. Fucking hurt.
“I can read you like a book, Little Kitty.”
“You’re a fucking jerk.”
“Maybe. But I never said anything about sleeping together. I just said that you need to sleep. You have a dirty mind.” He taps the tip of my nose and makes a clicking sound with his tongue. He draws away from me, looking satisfied. I think he’s telling the truth about reading me like a book, and that’s terrifying—that, and the fact that he is so much more experienced than me.
“I don’t think I’m your type anyway. Don’t you like them tall and blond?” I retort.
The grin shortens, and one eyebrow rises—the one with the split in it, an old scar.
“You haven’t been googling me, have you?” He’s amused. So fucking amused.
It was a stupid thing to ask, because I have been doing just that. I’ve seen the women he is usually with, and they look nothing like me.
He leans in close again, brushing the hair from my ear, and I can feel his lips along the shell of it. I can’t help my ragged breath because what he’s doing is sending raw electricity through my veins. “You shouldn’t believe what you see on the internet, sweetheart,” he says seriously, the word sweetheart catching me off guard. “Truthfully, I prefer brunettes.” He draws back. I turn my head to look up at him. “And I find myself more and more interested in a certain little kitty with a rebellious streak.”
Is he making fun of me again? I can’t tell because unlike me, he’s unreadable.
He sets two fingers on the raging pulse on my neck and I know it’s to show me that he can read me. He knows just how hard my heart is beating, knows what his being so close is doing to me. Most importantly, he knows he holds all the power.
I steel myself, force myself to look him straight in the eye. To try to separate my body from my mind. Seeing him this close is different than looking at photos in the society columns. He’s sort of beautiful in this dark, cruel way. I already knew that part. But beneath that cruelty, there’s a sadness inside his eyes. That’s the part the camera doesn’t catch.
I blink, and before I can think, I’m touching the scar that divides his right eyebrow.
Santos grins and takes my hand, and he’s gentle as his finger traces the scar he put on my palm. It’s strange because there is nothing gentle about this man. I know this. He is dangerous.
“Come, Little Kitty. Time to put you to bed.”
Without a word and without me expecting it, he lifts me up and carries me down the hall. I hook an arm over his shoulder. It’s all I can do as my mind processes what is happening, what I should be doing, and what my reaction should be. But it’s a mistake because I find my grip tightening on the hard muscle of his shoulders, his bicep, feeling his strength beneath the barrier of clothes.
Santos Augustine is all man… and I like it.
He doesn’t say anything. I’m sure he’s humoring drunk me. He opens a bedroom door, sets me on the bed, and crouches to slip my shoes off. I watch his dark head and feel his big hands cup each foot. He remains where he is, crouched down, and looks up at me as he slides his hands along one calf, knee, thigh. I fist the bedsheets, and it takes all I have not to whimper as I hold his gaze.
His grin is back, darker this time, dirtier. My throat goes dry as his fingers hook around the elastic of the thigh high stockings, anticipating. His gaze never drops mine, never releases me. I can’t look away as he drags my stocking down over my leg and cups my heel as he slips it off.
My body is aflame, every nerve ending alive. I’ve never been so attracted to a man in my life. Never. Boys I found cute in high school are nothing next to Santos Augustine.
He straightens, shifts my position so I’m lying against the headboard, and when he reaches to do the same with the other stocking, I let myself close my eyes just for a minute, just one single moment, to feel this. Just feel this foreign sensation.
But when I open them again, I realize my mistake… because he’s not looking at my face anymore. He’s looking at my legs, at what he can see where the skirt has split open. And his face, fuck. His face has turned to stone, his mouth into a hard line, his eyes impossibly dark—so dark the green is all but obliterated.
With trembling hands, I reach for the two sides of my dress and pull them closed as he lifts his gaze to mine. A moment passes, silent and heavy, before he shifts his gaze to my hands, covers them with his, and draws the dress apart again.
“Stop. Don’t,” I say, desperate for him not to see, because how could I be so fucking stupid?
He doesn’t stop, though. He pushes my hands away, and there are too many bruises, too many still angry welts. His hands tighten, like he’s flexing a fist as he moves the dress farther over and sees more. More. So much more.
I can hear myself breathing ragged breaths, hear the panic in the rush of blood against my ears. The room spins around us as I try to focus on the top of his head, on the feel of calloused hands softly tracing something else. Something different than the fresh welts. Something older.
My throat closes up and I feel my eyes well.
