Page 20 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

I expect him to push it. To retaliate, to make my life even more difficult than he already does.

But all he does is keep his eyes locked with mine before something very similar to admiration flickers through his features, and jerking his chin up at me, he says, “Fine. This round’s yours.

I’m not the most patient man, but I’ll wait.

” Then, licking his lips, “Because I know it’s going to be worth it. ”

“What’s going to be?—”

“You owe me a dance.”

Yes, I do, and the sooner I give it to him, the sooner we can put all of this behind us.

So instead of trying to decode what he mysteriously just said, I begin.

Like the other night, I twist and twirl using the pole.

I drop myself down. I pull myself up. But it’s not as smooth as it was before.

My heels are in the way. And even though I knew I’d be clumsy in them, I didn’t know how much.

I’ve already stumbled three times, and I haven’t even made it halfway to him.

The only consolation is that I have been able to catch my balance right away.

I don’t know how though because every time I stumble, something passes through his features, dark and edgy.

Something that makes him even more intense, and somehow impatient for something I don’t understand.

All I know is that I get even more nervous and keep stumbling.

Just when I think my torture is over and I’ve finally made it, my feet trip one last time and they do it so hard that I know there’s no catching my balance. I know I’m going to faceplant on the floor as my body dives and my arms flail. But at the last second, I find anchor in his hands.

Big and rough, so strong, they grab me by the waist and save me. My own hands, in search of purchase, land on his shoulders. Bent over him, with my chest heaving, I pant, “I t-told you.”

His hands squeeze my waist, his features all sharp and dark. “Yeah, you did.”

I fist his t-shirt. “I’m not good at this, but you?—”

“You are,” he says, in a voice as rough as his grip.

“I’m what?”

“Good.”

“You—”

“You love dancing, yeah?” he asks, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” he repeats on a murmur, a strange tone lacing his voice now, strange and lovely. “I love it too.”

My breath hitches at his very unexpected compliment. “Me d-dancing?”

“Yeah, for me.” Before I can say anything, he goes on, “In fact, I think I just found my favorite pastime. Making you dance for me.”

Before I can respond, he spins me around, using the brute force in his grip.

I lose my balance once again but since he’s still got a hold of me, I don’t fall.

Or rather, I find myself plopped down in his lap.

And then he goes ahead and adjusts himself and me .

In a way that my legs are spread and slung over his thighs.

I don’t know how he did it, because a second ago I had my legs closed but then he grabbed me behind my knees and draped them over his thighs, forcing them open. He does it so fast too that all I can do is grab his thighs—God, it’s like they’re really made of steel—and hold on.

I take a moment to take stock of my situation.

Of the fact that I’m now sitting with my back pressed into his massive chest, my butt cradled against his pelvis, and my legs snapped open and tangled with his burly thighs.

With my feet dangling above the ground, I realize I have no control over my body.

I have even less control when he puts a hand on my belly, splaying his fingers wide and pulling me into his body even more.

Then, he rasps into my ear, “You know, there’s a vein here”—he rubs his stubbled jaw against the side of my neck, telling me exactly which vein he’s talking about—“that flutters like an excited little bird when I’m close.

” Another rub and I swallow, which I’m sure he can feel because he chooses this moment to wrap his other hand, the one that’s not on my belly, around my neck.

Holy fuck, my entire body shakes like a leaf.

Pressing his thumb into my pulse and rubbing his scrape-y palm over my throat, he continues, “Next time you think you’re being all smart and sassy, taunting me with the sight of your swan-like neck, I’ll take it as an invitation to sink my teeth into that vein.

You know what it’s called, don’t you? The jugular.

It’s a major blood vessel that carries blood to the heart.

Which means, this is where the taste of your creamy skin is going to be the most potent.

And if I got a hit of your taste, you’d be walking around with my teeth marks on your neck 24/7. You don’t want that, do you?”

He squeezes my neck and digs his fingers into my tummy to emphasize his point.

And my vein, the one he’s rubbing his jaw against, my jugular, is pulsing like a mad bird.

And yes, it’s because he’s close. He’s so close that I feel every inch of his hard body against my soft one.

I feel every inch of his unforgiving muscles, the shape of them, the cuts, the rips pressed up against mine.

And God, he’s massive .

He’s even larger than I thought he was going to be.

His body has more strength, more power than I’d imagined.

So much so that all he has to do is widen his thighs and my world tips on its axis.

My legs spread open even more and I almost lose my balance.

I have to tighten my grip on his arm to save myself.

“Answer me,” he rasps. “You wanna wear a necklace made of my teeth marks, baby?”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh my God . I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know how to deal with him and his touch—his hand around my neck?!—and his endearments. Even so, I say, “No.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so,” he goes on.

“You—”

“Or not yet at least.”

“No, never.”

He chuckles, lowly, darkly, threateningly. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

“Can you?—”

“I like this better,” he says then.

Before I can ask what he means, he shows me.

He puts his thumb on it. On my belly button ring.

Tonight, instead of a stud, I’m wearing a silver hoop.

It’s more wholesome and innocent. As wholesome and innocent a belly button ring can be.

And he flicks it, making me suck in my belly, as he continues, “It’s easier to play with.

” Then, as if to demonstrate, he uses his thumb to toy with it for a few seconds, making me bite my lip, making my belly tremble.

Before saying, “Easier to hook my pinky in it too,”—he does that as well—“and tug.”

Of course, he tugs my ring too, making it somehow… ache, everything below my belly and I have to make a very conscious effort to not let out a moan. “It’s for the… job. I get b-bigger tips.”

He hums and squeezes my neck again. “Yeah, your fucking job and your fucking tips.”

“You need to…” I breathe out, tilting my head back so I can loosen his grip and breathe. “You need to let me go so I can… I can d-dance for you.”

“Oh, you’re going to dance for me, Little Strawberry, but first, we need to have a little chat.”

I try to move in his grip again, get some form of control back, but again, all he has to do is press his hand on my tummy and pull at my belly ring, digging the heel into my lower belly, and widen his legs to make me stay in place.

I dig my nails into his arm. “What… What chat?”

“About how things are going to be from now on.”

“I don’t?—”

“First,” he cuts me off, squeezing my throat again.

“I like your mouth. Actually, I fucking love your mouth. I love how soft it looks. How pink and thick. Like a juicy fruit. But then again, every inch of you reminds me of a fucking fruit, so that’s not really a surprise, is it?

” Another squeeze. “I also love when you sass me with it. Within reason, of course. But what I don’t like”—another threatening squeeze—“is when you run your mouth about being with other guys.”

I jerk, my dangling ankles arching. “What?”

“That’s what you said, didn’t you,” he rasps. “Last night. That you were following in my footsteps.”

“I—”

“You wanna follow me around, baby, you go for it. I’ll follow you back. Hell, I’ll even get matching leashes for each other. But if you even joke about other guys, I’m going to punish you in ways your na?ve schoolgirl brain hasn’t dreamed of yet, yeah?”

“P-punish me?”

“Are we clear?”

My heart is pounding in my chest, and once again I try to move away from him.

Or simply gain some control, but all he has to do is tighten his grip on me and I’m left off-kilter again.

I totally forgot about the taunt I issued last night.

It was meant to show him that he can’t fuck with me, but God, who am I kidding?

He isn’t a toxic snake for nothing. I shouldn’t keep baiting him the way I do.

“Please, I?—”

“Answer me,” he commands again.

I swallow under the confines of his hand. “Y-yes.”

“Good,” he praises.

And I clench my eyes shut at how thrilling that feels.

God, I’m such a freaking fool. My thighs are spread to almost as much as I can take.

My throat is starting to smart under his tight grip.

His hand on my belly is keeping me plastered to him in a way where I know he won’t let me move, while he pulls, pulls, pulls on my belly button ring.

I have no control whatsoever over my own body and yet, yet , I can’t stop the shivers at his good .

“Now,” he says, and I snap my eyes open. “No more sexy schoolgirl outfits.”

“I… What?”

“Or any outfit,” he clarifies, “short enough to get a peek of those white lacy panties every time you walk. Or flimsy enough that I can take it apart with my teeth.”

“You… have a w-weird fascination with your t-teeth.”

He chuckles, or more like blows out a puff of air. “I’m a toxic snake, remember? I bite back.”

I flinch as if he really bit me. “But I…”

“Because if I can do it”—he grits his teeth and he does it so hard, I can feel his bones moving against my cheek—“take your dress apart, they can do it too.”