We stare at each other for a second. I watch her body language for a sign. Her chest that used to rise and fall heavily is now serene, calm almost.
Good. She learnt her place.
Just then, she pounces on me. No kidding — she jumps at me like a flying animal, her legs wrapping around my waist as she lunges straight at the phone in my hand.
Well, fuck me.
Out of all the reactions I expected from her, this was the last. Fuck, it wasn’t even on the list. She didn’t let her height keep her down when she made the decision to come at me.
A fighter.
Why the hell do I want to break that or somehow engross myself in it?
Her face reddens as her gown bunches up her thighs in her struggle to reach my hand. Even by using my body as some sort of a ladder, she can’t reach the phone.
I keep it up. When she thinks she’s got it, I throw it to the other hand, making her cheeks redden more, her chest rising more. Her breathing turns harsh, causing her tits to strain against my bare chest.
When she realises she can’t reach it, she scratches my arm with her black-painted nails. The sting burns my skin and I react immediately, slamming her back against the wall.
A yelp escapes her throat, but before she can react, I grab both her wrists in one hand and pin them above her head, securing them with a hand.
Now, I have a tiny frame wrapping her legs around my waist, her chest against mine, and her arms are confined.
At my mercy.
Or the lack thereof.
“Let me go,” she hisses, but her gaze follows my hand that’s clutching the phone as I let it fall to my side.
I motion at the angry red scratch marks on my forearm. It’s like I’ve been attacked by a kitten — a small, furious kitten.
“You hurt me,” I say with a dispassionate tone.
“You want a prize for that?” She strains, trying to get free, but I’m pinning her so thoroughly she’s barely able to move.
“No. I’m more interested in justice. You hurt me, so I should hurt you back, don’t you think?”
To her credit, she tries to hide it, but her eyes widen the slightest bit, and to my fucking surprise, it’s not out of fear.
A spark just passed through the dim colour of her eyes, almost like a shooting star in a moonless night. It disappears as soon as it appears.
Well, well, well.
Looks like Teal Van Doren has perfect control over her expression. But there’s something she’s not quite successful at controlling — something that permeates the air with a musky, distinctive smell.
“Are you turned on by the prospect of being hurt, ma belle?” I smirk, drawing out the words slowly.
“You wish.”
“You did come by nipple pain just now. Does the thought of pain make you soaked?”
She purses her lips but says nothing to deny or to confirm.
“You know.” I slide my phone into the pocket of my trousers and reach my fingers to lift her chin.
Her lips are pink, full, and have this heart shape that could use some devouring or could be wrapped around Ron Astor the Second — I’m not picky.
She glares at me as if she wishes she could bite my eye out with her teeth. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a bit crazy, and fuck me, it’s starting to grow on me.
“You don’t have to hide it. I can feel your arousal on my stomach and smell it in the fucking air.”
She clenches her thighs then loosens them with the intent to come down. I slam her against the wall again.
The moment she gasps, I crush my lips to hers. She tastes like…madness, the type you can never get away from or with. It’s the type that gets under your skin, and soon enough, you don’t know whether you’re losing your sanity or your life.
Her lips tremble as if she doesn’t know what to do or how to do it. Her tongue moves tentatively against mine before it stops. She doesn’t kiss me back, but I don’t allow her the chance to.
For the first time in my life, I fucking feast on someone. Using my grip on her jaw, I squeeze it open so I can claim her tongue, bite it with my teeth, suck it with my lips. I steal her breath and her damn sanity just like she’s been doing with me.
She stirred up my ugly side, and now she has to become its target.
I, Ronan Astor, the most attentive lover you could ever find, want to break someone — but not just anyone.
Her.
I want to smash her tiny body against mine until she can never find an escape. And I want her to enjoy every second of it.
Tiny teeth latch onto my lower lip then bite — hard. Both of us taste the strong metal as she shoves away from me.
In her attempts to pull away, she stumbles to her unsteady feet. I expect her to fight me, to curse me, but she simply stares at my lips, at the blood she left there, as if she can’t look away. Then she wipes the blood off hers, still not breaking eye contact with my lips.
It’s like she’s in a trance and can’t break free.
Seeming to realise that, she turns around, and as I warned her she would, she runs.
It’s useless, though. She can’t run away anymore.
Different times. Different circumstances.
They say you should find what you love and keep it close.
The same can be said about what you hate.
8
Teal
Idon’t know how I get home.
One moment I’m running out of the club, and the next I’m hiding under my covers.
My breathing is choppy and harsh even though it’s been an hour since I arrived at my room. Even longer since his hands were on me, and yet that’s the only thing my body thinks of.
The way he took control of me, how he brought me to orgasm.
God, I can’t believe I came by just the teasing of my nipples. Shouldn’t there be a natural law against that or something?
I wish all my arousal had disappeared when I saw his face — his stupid symmetrical face — but it didn’t.
Not even close.
Those aristocratic features were nowhere near boring at that moment, or ordinary. All I saw was the one person, the first person who made me feel.
Reallyfeel.
I felt so much it was unbearable. That’s why I still can’t come down from that high even now.
Then he grabbed me, trapping me, and although the signs of an attack nearly swept me over the edge, they didn’t.
They freaking didn’t.
Usually, I’d have an episode if someone as much as tried to cage me. It brings back dark memories, thoughts, and smells, but at that moment? When he took all my will against the wall, I felt a strange sense of awareness. My nipples hurt even more than when he touched them.
They still do. They’re sensitive, throbbing, and sending tingles down to my core.
A shiver snaps through my spine and I curse myself, throwing the covers off and breathing heavily. So what if he touched me and it somehow didn’t suck? So what if he’s more than his gigolo image and has more depth? And he does have depth. The moment his smile disappeared — which is rare as hell — it was almost as if a different person altogether emerged.
A person who finds sick pleasure in trapping me, subjugating me to his will and mercy.
Still, that doesn’t change anything.
Ronan Astor is only a pawn in my game, a domino. That’s it.
That’s all.
He took that picture of me, and he’ll use it to threaten me to end the engagement and my damn plan. If anything, he’s my worst enemy now, and I’ll deal with him as such.
I retrieve my phone, determined to read an article or two then go to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with the mess that is Ronan Astor.
I won’t allow him to step on me even if it’s the last thing I do.
Of their own accord, my fingers hover over the Instagram app. I don’t even use Instagram — or any social media, for that matter — but the other day, I made an account. It has zero followers, is following one, and lacks any profile picture.
The only reason I started it was to see what he posts in my quest to read him.
Ronan’s Instagram is a translation of his bubbly, energetic personality. It’s filled with pictures of him and his friends half-naked. Most of the shots are in pools with bikini-clad girls, and he always showcases that signature sickening smile.
A smile that hides more than it shows.
I hover over a picture of him from the side taken without his notice. It’s after one of the games and he’s wearing the team’s blue uniform. The stadium’s lights shine on him as he throws his head back in deep, radiant laughter that glows on his entire face.
How can he fake that? Even I fell for it, and I don’t understand human emotions all that much.
How could someone be so carefree and yet bottling up so much inside?
It doesn’t make sense.
Either you’re on this side or that — it can’t be both.
I scroll down below and find a picture of him leaning down to hug his mother’s shoulder. She’s smiling at the camera, and his grin in this one is almost too boyish, softer than the others.
The caption says: Her ladyship. A woman after my own heart.
Interesting. I keep that information for later use.