Page 35 of A Wreck, You Make Me

His eyes flash at my nickname for him. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I’m not a fucking stripper,” I almost snap. “So no, I will not be taking my clothes off, thank you.”

He studies my features, which I’m sure are flushed and heated. “Again, not my problem.”

Of course it isn’t. It’s mine. All of this is my problem.Heis my problem. And you know what, fuck him. He wants to see me take my clothes off, fine. I’ll show him.

Without taking my eyes off him, I reach up and around my neck. I loosen the blood red tie I’m wearing—another thing to complete my schoolgirl ensemble—and take it off. I hook it with my finger and, reaching my arm out, drop it on the floor as I say, “There, are you happy now? A piece of clothing has been takenoff. But that’s all you’re getting. You don’t like it, there’s the door.”

I expect him to push it. To retaliate, to make my life even more difficult than he already does. But all he does is keephis 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. IknowI’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 andme. 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 grabhisthighs—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 anexcited 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,ispulsing like a mad bird. And yes, it’s because he’s close. He’ssoclose 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.