Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Touching. I can’t help myself. Maybe I’ll even get to put my hands around his neck.
“If that’s what you want, mon—” He stops himself. Restarts. “Ma belle.” I can be beautiful, but I can’t be his heart. Not when he’s expecting another man to put his penis inside me.
No, he’s not.
He’s expecting me to run.
“As you so lovingly pointed out recently, I do so love an audience.”
He steps backward, not staggers, the light behind him making his face a collection of hard shadows. I can’t make out his expression, and I don’t know whether the rigid set of his shoulders is from anger or disgust. Or if he’s turned on.
Let it be anger. Let it hurt.
Let this man be hung like a horse.
Or not. Because I’m not going through with this.
No way.
He’s not going to let me.
Not after he called me his beloved.
My heart is beating so hard it seems impossible they can’t hear it. I keep my chin raised and my mouth curved into something that might pass for confidence. From a distance. I can do this. Or pretend that I can. Long enough to force Luc to admit that he can’t.
Because he can’t.
No way.
He’ll let this play out for another minute, maybe two. Long enough to prove whatever brutal point he thinks he’s making.
That I was wrong to listen. Wrong to admit my love.
Then the man will reach for me, and Luc will call the whole thing off. He’ll take me upstairs, or outside, or anywhere we can tear each other apart in private.
But he will stop it because he loves me.
I heard him say it.
And even if he wants me to hate him, there are limits to what he can bear.
The man brushes the hair from my shoulder, the backs of his fingers too close to my nipple, making it stiffen through the thin fabric.
Luc’s gaze drops to it. Every part of him goes still.
I wait. One beat. Two. Three.
He lifts his eyes to mine, and I put every ounce of pain he has caused me into my stare.
Go on, then.
Stop this.
Instead, he puts down his glass.
“Shall we go somewhere a little more private?”
I want to throat punch the man standing beside me.
“Sure,” I say, dragging my gaze from Luc’s because if I look at him any longer, he’ll win.
47
LUC
She licks her lips, color sitting too high on her cheekbones. She is nervous and has sunk two glasses of champagne in quick succession. Dutch courage.
Not good. But now we’re here, in this room where I’ve fucked before. But never with an audience. I’ve never been a member of an audience, either. Not that I’m at all sure I can stomach it now.
It doesn’t matter.
She isn’t going to go through with this.
And if she does…
We’ll both be crushed. And we’ll both be cured.
We’re animals, I tell myself. Before Primrose, I’d probably be glad to be in his place. Animals. Bodies. Appetites. I brought her here to strip away the illusion of us being anything else.
The man closes the door—Tristain, he said was his name—and steps deeper into the room, Primrose between us, the flower between two thorns. One of them horny. The other sick to his stomach.
He takes one measured step, two, and like a choreographed dance, she backs into me. Every muscle in my body tightens, the scent of her perfume, jasmine and secrets, feels like a sensory memory. Like I’m remembering her before she’s gone.
Her gaze flicks over her shoulder, lush bottom lip caught between her teeth. I wonder what she sees in my face, what she feels in my body, her ass pressed tight to my cock. Animals. Animals. I’m not really turned on.
“I didn’t see you there.” There’s a challenge in her voice, a put-down. She’s unbothered I’m here. But beneath that lie is hurt, and beneath that, stubbornness.
Does she think she’ll go through with this?
Is she planning to?
A vicious pressure builds behind my ribs.
“You don’t need to see me. I need to see you.” When I should step away, my hands grip her hips instead. The action is firm and proprietary, and the other man smiles like he recognizes the claim. Respects it, even.
Fuck him. Just, fuck him.
He watches the way I shift, how my jaw grits. How I keep possessively close, almost as though I’m going to spin her out of his reach at the last second.
A standoff, but not quite. He smiles at it, his gaze gliding to Primrose, sandwiched between myself and a man whose name I wish I didn’t remember.
“May I?” He asks which of us, I’m not sure, hand already outstretched.
She leans into me, hesitant. My hands on her hips tighten, the way you grip the rung of a ladder, halfway up and no way down but to fall.
She nods eventually, then adds, “Yes.” Her voice is softer than she probably intends, the consonants blurring as his hand cups her cheek.