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Page 10 of Hostile Cravings (Wicked Cravings #3)

Chapter Six

ANGIE

M y scalp was burning where Tyson had pulled my hair, but within the pain sat pleasure.

The move had made me so wet that I was uncomfortable.

Blowing my hair from my eyes, I leaned my head against the headboard, wondering why I was obeying his order to stay still.

The idea of being stuck in this bed for days while the beach was so close irritated me.

Just as much as the thought of having to share this room with Tyson.

Although that thought wasn’t as unappealing as it had once been.

My response to him was changing, and I didn’t understand why.

He’d been nothing but nasty to me…but then again, he hadn’t.

He’d tenderly looked at my ankle before wrapping it, then carried me into the car and the resort.

And he’d staked a claim on me with his words on the plane and supported my claim on him when that wench had been hitting on him.

Hearing him had made my body grow warm and left my heart thumping uncontrollably.

There was a sweetness to Tyson, one he hid below his hard exterior and comments.

I looked across the room to the balcony, wondering why I cared if he was sweet and why his touch was still lingering on my skin.

He’d been gone a few minutes, and I couldn’t help thinking his words for the woman had been for show and he was downstairs taking her up on her offer.

An odd streak of envy pinched me as my mind pictured him grabbing her hair and touching her like I wanted him to touch me.

“Damn, Anj, you’re losing it. You did not just think that,” I scolded myself.

Needing to clear my mind, I put my feet down, peeking over my shoulder to make sure Tyson wasn’t coming in.

I hobbled over to the bathroom, checking myself out while I washed my hands.

I was a mess. My hair looked like I’d been rolling around in the sheets with Tyson.

I tried to smooth the knots out, but it didn’t help.

Sighing, I exited the bathroom, jumping with a scream as my eyes met his dark ones.

He was standing at the end of the bed, his arms crossed, his tattoos bulging under the muscles of his forearms where he’d rolled his sleeves up.

“Do you purposely disobey me just to piss me off?”

“I don’t obey anyone, so don’t take it personally. And don’t get any ideas, I’m not into that kind of thing.”

He gave me a sly grin that sent my insides quivering. I really needed to check what that doctor had given me. Unless it was the pain making me delusional.

“I’m not getting any ideas, and trust me, I’m the furthest thing from a dom. That’s more Mason’s thing…” His face morphed to disgust. “Gross, that’s not good. I need to have a talk with him.”

“Who knew Casey was into that?” I teased, gingerly making my way to my bags and hoping his mind would stay on his sister and not on my show of independence.

“Don’t put that thought in my head or I’ll beat the shit out of Mason again,” he grumbled, swiveling to me swiftly and grabbing my waist before slinging me over his shoulder.

“Put me down, Tyson! ”

“I warned you,” he said, pushing my skirt up slightly before his hand met my bare skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Do you wear anything but thongs?” His voice was raspy, and I couldn’t deny how it sent a flurry of butterflies through my stomach.

“No, they’re easy access.”

“Shit, Angie. You need to stop that.” He smacked my ass again, and I gave out a yelp as he threw me on the bed.

“Stop what? Dressing sexy?” I rubbed the warm spot where the sting still lingered, trying to ignore how wet those slaps had left me.

“It’s not sexy, it’s easy,” he grumbled, standing over me.

“It’s the same thing your sluts wear.” I bit my tongue, knowing I’d just set myself up for a comeback.

“You’re not a slut,” he mumbled, surprising me. “Stop acting like you are.”

He turned away and walked toward the balcony.

“Then stop acting like you are.”

Glancing over his shoulder, his brow furrowing, he studied me.

“I’m no worse than you, Tyson,” I said, looking away from his heavy stare and working my way down the bed.

“Damn, Anj, stop moving.” He stomped back to my bags. “What do you need?”

“My hairbrush,” I mumbled.

“Your hair looks fine.”

I subconsciously ran my fingers through it, knowing it didn’t and wondering why he was telling me it did. Opening my smaller suitcase, he started tossing things around, and I cringed. “Could you be any rougher?”

Glancing up at me, he smirked. Shit, those smirks were starting to melt me instead of irritate me like they usually did.

“I definitely can.”

Rolling my eyes, I scooted closer, but his eyes shifted with an unspoken threat in them before they dropped back down. I really didn’t want him going through my things and my heart pounded as I realized I didn’t want him seeing any part of me that wasn’t what I put on display.

“Tyson, stop,” I said as he pulled my makeup bag out and turned it over in his hands, studying it.

“What is this?” he asked, unzipping the large bag and rummaging through my makeup.

“It’s my makeup, asshole. What does it look like?” I snapped.

“You use all this?”

“Shut up, Tyson, and get out of my bags.”

But he stood there, looking through it, picking up my concealer, then my powder, my mascara, and bunching them in his hands. He walked to the trash can and dropped them all in, emptying the entire bag as I cursed him.

“You piece of shit! Put those back.” I rose from the bed, limping toward him, and he threw the empty bag into my suitcase, grabbing my wrists as I went to hit him.

“What else are you hiding, Angie? Why hide behind all that shit?”

“I hate you, Tyson.”

He jerked my wrists behind me, my body pushing against his in reaction. “Well, I detest you, little viper.”

“Why do you care if I wear makeup? Your whores wear it.”

His face contorted, anger etched around his eyes. “I don’t sleep with whores, so stop calling them that.”

“Then what do you call them?”

“Women, bitch. What do you call the idiots you let fuck you every night?” The vitriol in his voice was like venom and a vein swelled in his neck. His grip on my wrists was so tight they were aching.

“Men—”

“Spoiled trust fund brats. Boys who pretend to be men.”

“Shut up. At least they have class, not like the bimbos you sleep with.” I didn’t know why I was so furious about the women he’d slept with suddenly. Or why it mattered to me who they were.

“Trust me, they weren’t bimbos. If you’d like me to prove that, I’d be happy to call the resort manager up here and have her ride me the rest of the night.”

“What do I care? This is all a sham, anyway. Go ahead and sleep with her. I don’t give a shit.”

His features shifted again, and I couldn’t read the expression that seemed to morph from confusion to hurt to anger. It reflected the emotions that were whipping through me and when he let me go, smoothed his shirt, and walked to the door, disappointment and envy crashed through me.

“Tyson,” I said, hearing the plea, the desperate need for him not to leave me alone. To not turn to another woman…even if we weren’t anything more than enemies, two people who couldn’t stand each other.

He paused, and I held my breath, but he didn’t turn back. Instead, he left the room. Silence engulfed me, along with something I didn’t like—an emptiness that sat too heavy in my chest.

I tried not to think of Tyson as time ticked by.

I supposed I should have been thankful that he hadn’t brought the woman back to our room.

For some reason, I thought having to watch that would leave me broken in some way.

I just couldn’t figure out why. Digging through the trash, I returned my makeup to my bag and took it and my other toiletries into the bathroom.

Evening had fallen, and I didn’t expect Tyson to be back anytime soon, if at all.

I was starving, having missed lunch, and now dinner was passing by, but I was too tired to ask the men guarding me for food.

Deciding to get ready for bed instead, I washed my face, staring at myself in the mirror as I patted it dry.

Reaching into my bag, I prepared to paint my face again, to cover the freckles and the birthmark that sat like a brown stain on the edge of my cheek.

Tyson was right. I was hiding. I’d been hiding for years, hating what I saw reflected in the mirror, the reminders of my insecurities and of the pain those freckles brought me every time I saw them.

I pushed the bag aside, deciding it didn’t matter tonight.

I’d be sleeping here alone, so why bother covering it up?

Contacts removed, I pulled my glasses out, something I never did, even at home with Tony and my father.

They hadn’t seen me in glasses or without makeup since I was young. No one had.

With my hands poised to release the messy ponytail I’d pulled my hair into, I stared at the version of myself that I avoided, the one I never stopped to look at before I crawled into bed each night or before I put my mask on each morning.

I didn’t know why Tyson’s words had hit so hard or why it mattered that he’d said them.

But I was tired. Tired of hiding, tired of being someone no one liked, tired of the defenses I’d built, tired of fighting with him.

After leaving the bathroom, I looked through my clothes, hating them all when I looked at them through his eyes.

I glanced over at his bag. Pulling my dress off, I put a pair of shorts on, then opened his bag, avoiding the boxers and personal items and pulling out one of his T-shirts.

It was dark gray, and when I brought it to my nose, it smelled like him.

His smell shouldn’t have been familiar to me, but it was because, as much as we hated each other, he’d been in my life for years.

Long enough to recognize the way he smelled, the subtle cologne he wore.

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