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“And I said I would do it myself when I was feeling up to it,” she fires back.
“I saved you a trip to that shithole you call an apartment. You’re welcome.”
Her eyes flit across my desk. She’s searching for something to launch at me.
I kind of wish she would. It would give me an excuse to put my hands on her body. To remind myself what she has going on under all these layers and put her in her place.
“I wanted to do it myself.”
“And I didn’t want to wait for the mood to strike,” I retort. “There’s no sense in paying another month’s rent for that abomination, anyway.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t pretend this is about money. You could pay my rent with the loose change in your couch cushions.”
I shrug. “No one gets rich by wasting money.”
“This isn’t about money.” She steps right over the box she’s dropped on my carpet, eyes narrowed into furious slits. “This is about control.”
“Is it?” I ask in a bored voice. “That’s news to me.”
I know it rattles her when I meet her temper with aloof calm. It gets under her skin and turns her temper into something volatile, unpredictable. That idiot she was fake-married to probably rose to that bait more often than not.
Me? I prefer riding the storm.
“Are you kidding me? You’ve already moved me into your house. You’ve knocked me up. You’re forcing me into marrying you—”
“I gave you a choice.”
“Some choice,” she scoffs, flinging her arms out wide. “'If I don’t marry you, you’ll keep me from my kid. And you have the resources to make good on that grossly despicable threat. How is that a choice?”
I stand up and walk around my desk so that I’m face to face with her. She shrinks back, but I lean forward, matching her movements, shadowing her like an eclipse.
“It’s more of a choice than anyone else in my life has ever received,” I say quietly.
Her eyes widen for a split second. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“No, I’m trying to educate you.”
“I may not have a fancy Ivy League degree, but I know enough to know when I’m being bullied. You may be bigger, stronger, and more powerful than me, but that doesn’t mean you own me.”
Her cheeks are flushed and she’s breathing hard. She looks like she’s just run a marathon.
Actually, she looks the way she did the night we met. When I had her pinned against the balcony of my suite, with her legs spread and her mouth open and my name on her lips like a fucking hallelujah.
I shake off the memory. “I’d be careful if I were you, Paige. I’ve never met a challenge I haven’t conquered.”
“I’ve been manipulated before, and I won’t suffer through it again,” she hisses. “You won’t conquer me, Misha.”
“Did you really march your way into my office to tell me that?”
“I marched my way into your office to tell you that if this arrangement of yours is going to work, then I have another condition.”
I already regret allowing this conversation. Not in the least because the longer she’s in here, the more this room smells like her. And the more this room smells like her, the harder it’s going to be to tame my lust.
“Go on.”
She smiles. There’s an air of triumph in the curve of her lips. It makes me want to bite the bottom one just to wipe it from her face.
She takes a proud step towards me. She must be riding the high of all that righteous indignation, because she is dangerously close to me now. Close enough for me to do with my hands what I’ve already done with my words: remind her where she belongs.
