When I don’t acknowledge him, he moves closer to me and I instinctively back further into the corner. “Are you hot, Dylan? ‘Cause you look hot to me. Need a hand slipping that off?”
At that absurd question, I turn my head and glare at him. “If you step any closer to me, I’ll be the only one leaving this elevator with a set of balls.” He either doesn’t have a pair, or he doesn’t value them, because my threat doesn’t stop him from moving quickly and bracing himself with a hand on either side of my face. His body is pressed against mine and if this intrusion isn’t enough to make me sick, his erection digging into my stomach pushes me over the edge. I clench my teeth and flatten myself further against the wall. “Back the fuck up.”
“And if I don’t? Removing my balls would require touching them, so by all means.” He lifts a finger, trailing it down the side of my face to my neck. “Did you like my flower?”
My breathing was already labored, but now I’m borderline-hyperventilating. That fucking flower. I stare up into his eyes, my fists shaking at my sides.
“I was planning on stopping by your shop this week. My father has been craving your tarts and I’ve been craving something, as well. Think you could fill both our orders?”
“Stay the fuck away from my shop,” I hiss as my nails cut into the skin of my palms.
“Or what?” he asks, leaning closer and bracing himself on the wall next to my head. “Nothing stands in the way of what I want, Dylan. Not even your boyfriend.”
“What is it? What is your weird-ass obsession with me? I don’t want you. I never will. So get the fuck over yourself and find someone else to creep the hell out.”
I push against him but he pushes back harder, flattening me against the wall. He tilts his head down, brushing his nose against my forehead. “You want to know what it is about you?”
“I want you to get the fuck off me.”
“Then do something about it,” he snarls in my face.
I could slap this asshole, but I’m suddenly flooded with the urge to do something that’ll hurt a hell of a lot worse. Grabbing his shoulders, his eyes enlarge and he drops his finger from my neck as I fist his dress shirt and swiftly bring my knee up, striking him right where I need to with enough force to bring him to his knees.
“Awhhhh, fuckkkkk.” He’s on his side, rolling in a fetal position with his hands clutching the balls I just crushed.
The elevator comes to a stop at that exact moment, allowing me to step over him and move toward the opening doors. When I hear laughter, I look back at him over my shoulder, seeing his face contorted into a mix of agony and mischief.
“That,” he says through a faint voice before blowing out forcefully through pursed lips. “Fuck, yes. That’s what it is.” He laughs again, but it’s snuffed out by more groans as he clutches his groin.
I slam my hand on the elevator door, holding it open. “Stay the fuck away from my shop. And if I were you, I’d get the hell out of Chicago before Reese, my fiancé, does a lot worse than what I just did.” I glance down at his crotch. “Good luck having kids, douchebag.”
I step out of the elevator, hearing the doors ding close behind me. Hmm. Kneeing assholes in the balls is just as satisfying as slapping them across the face. Maybe a bit more.
Thanks a lot, Bryce. You’ve just given me a new favorite go-to move.