Page 33 of Dance of Thorns

Those’ll come later.

She faces me, her chin set, her head held defiantly as she stands there in just her underwear—a plain, black thong and an even more utilitarian gray bra.

All the same, my jaw tightens.

Whatever anger I feel for her doesn’t change the fact that she’sstunning. She was always gorgeous, and the hard partying, addiction, and rehab over the last few years haven’t doneshitto change that.

Being a professional dancer training hundreds of hours a week doesn’t exactly hurt, either.

I let my eyes drag over her tight, toned body. The athletic arms and feminine shoulders. The soft rise of her breasts, her nipplestightening visibly through the plain gray bra. The toned stomach and slim but rounded hips, tapering down into long, runway model legs.

My dick twitches in my pants despite my efforts to stop it.

I can’t help it when looking at a woman that stunning.

It's just biology.

Silence blankets the room as my gaze slides over her curves. Her soft skin, now with a smattering of delicate tattoos on her arm, wrist and hip. The pink and blonde hair. The ruined dancer's feet which give her unexpected character.

I smile coldly. All her emo-goth manic-pixie-dream girl armor is doingshitto deter me.

I lift my eyes to hers. “I did meanallyour clothes.”

She glares at me. “Pig.”

I shrug. “Oink oink.” My eyes narrow. “Seriously, lose the rest.”

I watch smugly as she unhooks her bra and lets it fall to the floor, her eyes avoiding mine. I stare at her body openly as she bares it to me, my eyes lingering on the slope of her small tits. Her rosy-pink nipples as they tighten in the air.

The panties drop to her ankles before she deftly steps out of them. Then she just stands there, arms at her sides, a grim expression on her face as she stares fixedly at the wall behind me.

I’m amused that she doesn’t try to cover herself, even though I know this is also part of her trying to “stick it” to me.

My gaze slides down her toned stomach and between her soft thighs to the pink slit of her pussy.

Clean shaven. Though, there’s a slight dusting of stubble, which amuses me. It means she likes to keep it shaved, but she wasn’t expecting toneedit shaved when she came here tonight.

She notices where my eyes land, and I don’t miss the haughty little smirk on her face. But when my gaze shifts to the thin, evenly spaced white scar lines across her upper thigh near her hip, the smirk fades. For the first time since she took her clothes off, she tries to cover part of herself. Her palm slides across her hip, but my voice stops her.

“Hands to your sides.”

She shoots me a look, her mouth opening and then closing, then her hovering hand retreats to her side, and she holds her head high again, meeting my gaze without flinching, glaring right at me.

“Well, you’ve made it abundantly clear what you expect from this.”

Before I can even blink she’s turning to the side and bending over the chair across the desk from me, her elbows on the armrest, her muscled back slightly arched, her head down, a cold, stormy expression on her face.

“Just fucking do it already so we can get it over with.”

The room is quiet for a moment. My lips curl darkly at the corners as I stand from my chair and slowly—slowly—make my way around the side of my desk, until I’m looking right at her tight ass.

On the one hand, I’m staring at her soft, pink pussy framed by her creamy thighs, and my cock starts to swell.

Again, it’s just biology.

But on the other hand, this isnothow I want her. I want herbeggingme when I do—either to do it, or not. This unfussed “get it over with” attitude throws me and pisses me right the fuck off.

I chuckle. Her face heats as she turns her head to the side, glaring back at me.