Page 92 of Hell Bent

“Well, yes, but you haven’t actually been mad.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Then said, “Wait. I’m still mad.”

“Uh-huh. Could you save it for a minute, until I get out of the shower? Or—you know what?” She grabbed me by the front of my T-shirt and dragged me into my bathroom. Well,thiswas new. “Get in the shower with me.”

I had my arms folded—now that I wasn’t being dragged, I did. “Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to be mad, get in the shower with me andshowme.” And stripped off her shirt.

I said, “I’m still mad.”

“I got it.” She was on her leggings now. They weren’t easy to pull down, because they were soaked. She had to do a lot of … wriggling. Somehow, my own shirt and pants were hitting the floor, too, and I was shoving taps open.

She said, “I have to pee first. Much rain and cold. Cover your eyes.” And pulled off her panties. They were pink today.

“I am not covering my eyes,” I said. “I’m getting in the shower.”

“Fine,” she said, and before I could do it, she was sitting on the toilet.

I said, “You did not just do that in front of me.”

“Yep. I did.” A flush, and the lid banging down. “Now get in there and show me what you do to women you’re mad at. Here I am, just waiting to find out.”

Alix

What men do to women they’re mad at, apparently, is grab them, shove them up against the shower wall, kiss them so hard they lose their breath, touch them all over with greedy hands, then …

Well, yeah. Then, apparently, they lift them under the bottom with their very strong arms, tell them, “Wrap your legs around me,” and shove home.Whilebiting your neck. Their neck. Whatever. And you’re so turned on by that point, all you want is more of this.

I couldn’t exactly think. It was steamy in here and getting steamier, and Sebastian was saying, “I want to … I want to …”

“Then do it,” I gasped.

“You’re not …” Another thrust. “Submissive enough.”

“Excuseme?”

“No … worries.” Oh, man. It was sogood.“This will … do.”

“No way, buddy.” I shoved him in the chest. “Not if it’s second best.”

He backed off. Hair and body streaming with the water that pounded over us from two different showerheads, chest rising and falling, face wolf-intense. “Right,” he said. “Right.”

I wasn’t listening. Something was roaring in my ears, that was why. I shoved the taps closed, grabbed his wrist, and said, “Show me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. I said, “Showme.”

“Fine.” Now, he grabbedmywrist—I wasn’t sure how that had happened—snatched up a towel with the other hand, and pulled me out into the bedroom, where he locked the door, turned, and started toweling me dry.

“Stop being thoughtful,” I said. “Stop being considerate. You’re mad?Showme.”

What was I doing here? I was no kind of sexual goddess! And what did that even mean, “You’re not submissive enough”? I wasn’t changing for a man. I wasme.

“Right,” he said through his teeth. “Get on the bed.” Hischest was rising and falling, he was soaking wet, and he was—well, just so ridiculously dominant that half of me wanted to laugh, but the other half wanted to find out what he’d actuallydo.

I said, “I’m going. Because I want to.” Upon which I climbed up there onto my knees, lifted my arms from my sides, and let them fall again to slap my thighs. “I did it. Now what?”

He glared at me. “That’s the wrong answer.”