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I shook my head. No, definitely not. Every single moment she was in my presence, she used it to challenge or undercut me, to establish how much she despised me.
Did she, though?
She didn’t hate me quite as much as she pretended because there was no way Clara, even with our age difference, would allow a man to touch her if she didn’t want it. I may have started it as a challenge or simply to shut her up, but she’d kept it rolling.
Shoulders back, chin up, she spewed out, “Oh, it was a mistake, alright. You should be so lucky to ever touch or kiss me again. Don’t for an instant think this changes anything between us.”
Her voice was a mixture of injury and rage, yet neither of us believed a word she’d said.
Even so, she was a proud woman, and I didn’t like the distress on her face. Superiority, smugness, disdain. Those I was used to.
But hurt?
That, I could not stand.
I lifted my hand, about to reach for her, to comfort her, but she faltered, stepping to the side as if my touch would burn. Before I could say or do anything to try to make things right, she spun on her heel and stormed into the restaurant, positively enraged.
She was fucking glorious.
Not only did I have the incredible taste of her still on my tongue, but I’d turned her against me even more. Panic flooded my heart.
For the first time in my life, I wanted more from a woman.
A woman I’d lost any chance of ever having.
