“Never.” She unloaded the gravity of her heart in that single impassioned word.
His arms fell away, his body heat gone. She watched his reflection pace the large bathroom, hands in his hair, red splotches creeping from the neck of his t-shirt. Even when irritated, he moved with a swagger in his step. The lift of his arms raised the hem of his shirt, exposing the cut V of his abs and the bounce and flex of cotton-stretching muscle. His jeans rode so low on his trim hips a dark line of hair surfaced above his belt.
On the next pass, he slipped a toothpick in his mouth and stopped behind her, his expression turbulent. He gripped her thighs, holding her legs open, and gave her the full potency of his silver eyes and growly voice. “You should've yanked up your dress and showed those fuckers your beautiful *.”
Oh God, he was fuming. On her behalf. It should've scared her, but in that fleeting moment, she trusted he wouldn't turn his anger on her. “I did. I removed my panties and ripped my designer gown from ankles to waist, right up the middle.”
His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open, the toothpick protruding from the corner. She liked that. When his lips tilted in a lopsided grin, she loved it, so much so she wanted to smile with him. But she could still feel her fury from that night, her blood simmering at the surface, scorching her skin.
“I gathered the satin fabric behind me, turned in a circle, and let the room have their fill of my flapping wings.” Brent's face had turned ashen, but she'd been too heartbroken to care. Somehow, she'd managed to grab her panties from the floor and walk out of there with the confidence of a beauty queen, head high, long strides, one heel before the other, hands relaxed at her sides. The nervous laughter of two hundred people had followed her out the door. “I left Brent that night. I was disqualified. Tried to enter other pageants for the next year. I never stepped on stage again.”
“Your disqualification remains a mystery on the Internet. No one talked to the press? No camera phone shots of you in your ripped gown?”
Every nerve in her body bristled on high alert. Of course, he'd researched her. He was a stalker. “The event was an invite-only affair for the semi-finalists. Since the pageant hadn't aired yet, the attendees were confidential. No cameras allowed. After, the pageant officials were tenacious about keeping the details hushed.” They hadn't wanted to tarnish their reputation with the disgrace of a contestant.
Van's palms slid down her thighs and paused an inch from her outer lips. “No one has seen this since that night?”
She shook her head. “Not even a doctor,” she said absently, distracted by the view of her * framed with the thumbs and fingers of his huge hands. It looked the same but strangely...protected. What if Van had been there that night, standing beside her with his broad shoulders, alluring scar, and intimidating eyes? Would they have laughed then? Would she have cared what they thought? Such an absurd, disturbing notion, yet imagining it sparked a burst of warmth in her chest.
“When I look at your tiny pink lips,” he said softly, “I want to slide my tongue between them and suck the sweetness from your tight hole. I crave your taste, the velvety feel of you in my mouth and around my cock.” His eyes found hers in the mirror, a smoldering collision. His pupils dilated into bottomless pools of danger, pulling her in. “Your * is exquisite, Amber. A perfect mold of flesh and fantasy, of throbbing blood and healthy life. Nothing compares to the grip of your wet heat. Nothing.”
He ground his erection against her back, but she didn't think he was trying to be lewd. Nor did she believe he'd force her to have sex on the heels of revealing her humiliating story. He was merely proving his words the one way he knew how, and she wanted to believe them.
When he stepped away and handed her the towel, she knotted it around her and stared at his outstretched hand. Don't let your guard down. With a steady breath, she gripped his fingers and followed him out of the bathroom to the kitchen.
The drapes on all the ground-level windows kept her breathing at an even tempo, but the layers of dust on the furniture, the crusty dishes on the counter and in the sink, and black smudges on the tiles ratcheted her pulse to ear-ringing anxiety. She pulled away from his hand and sprinted to the sink, the tremors in her legs numbing her feet.
Where to start? Oh God, she would never get this place clean enough. She ducked her head, searching for the soap, the scrub brushes, the dishwasher... Where were the damned—?
His hand wrapped around her throat and yanked her back. Deep grooves formed in his forehead, his eyes narrowed and steely. “Sit the fuck down.” He shoved her by her neck until her ass hit a chair at the table, seating her.