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Anger?
Hunger?
Thinking I’m fucking delusional?
My best guess is all the above.
But he has no right to look at me this way.
“Don’t fucking judge me. You have no idea,” I snap, fighting the burn behind my eyes, willing the tears not to fall again because this time, they’re not for my mother. They’re for how crazy I sound, and how I allowed the anger to control me until I could hardly breathe.
Attempting to stand, I make it halfway before he jerks me back to him. He pulls my legs to either side of his waist, goading me as I straddle him. He sucks in a breath, hooded lids daring me to keep his gaze. But like the coward I am, I look away, his intensity making my heart pound so hard against my chest, I’m sure he can hear it.
I want to fight him, to scream at him to let me go. But when he holds my face with both palms—enough to almost hurt—I know he won’t let me move. I try to look away again, to move, to escape the boring hole he’s staring through me, but he won’t budge. His scent invades me. Cedarwood and peppermint and roaring masculinity. All fucking Jake and my head spins.
“I have no idea?” he snarls. “Listen here, princess. Don’t fucking tell me what I know. This pain. I’ve lived with it for long enough to recognize it when it’s staring back at me.”
He sees it too.
He closes his eyes, swallowing hard, his frustrated breaths making his chest heave, and every time it brushes against my breasts, I try not to squirm.
“If you want something. Ask for it.”
I hold his stare, trying to read between the lines.
He doesn’t want me to beat around the bush, and I’m diving too much inside my embarrassment to even utter the words, so I do the only thing I know how at this moment.
I deny.
Because denial may keep my heart intact.
My breathing is too shallow, and I can’t seem to fill my lungs. My voice sounds weak, and even I’m unconvinced when I say, “I don’t know what you mean.”
A slow, uneven, and devilish grin curls at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t go coy on me now, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes the base of my throat, applying enough pressure for my eyes to roll, and my thighs clench on his lap.
He couldn’t have not felt that.
Jesus, Claire.
But when I shift my position, I feel exactly how hard he is between my legs, straining against his slacks. He tilts his hips, and my head falls back, foggy with need. The rough pad of his thumb pulls my lower lip from the hold of my bite.
“Say it,” he demands, edging so close that my breath catches in my throat. “Tell me what you want.”
Why is he doing this?
What does he want me to do?
Beg?
No, thank you. I’d like to keep my pride intact, even if my dignity has fallen to shreds.
Feeling a burning flush across my body, I press my palms to his chest, pushing against him, and straightening my legs until I’m upright.
I’m embarrassed and angry. And yes, the man turns me on to no end, and right now, I hate him for it.
“Fuck you, Jake. If you don’t want me, you only have to say.” I rush out of the room as fast as my legs will take me. He doesn’t get to see me bare my soul until I’m raw and then pick at the wounds.
“Claire,” he calls after me as I round the hallway. I’m almost to the stairs when his voice booms against the walls. “Goddammit, Claire. Stop!”
