Page 27 of I'm sorry, Princess

“Not your type, huh?”

His voice is smooth, deep, velvet laced with poison. The kind of tone that slides under your skin and stays there.

His thumb lifts, slow, deliberate. He brushes it against my lower lip, massaging it softly, like he's trying to memorize its shape. Like he owns it already.

And just like that, I’m frozen.

My body betrays me before my mind can catch up. Goosebumps trail down my arms, heat building low in my belly, and my thighs clench together instinctively. I hate this. I hate him. But my lips part under his thumb without thinking.

His gaze is on my mouth now. His eyes are sharp, cold, but there’s a hunger there too. A hunger I shouldn’t crave.

“I’ll have you begging in no time, princess,” he whispers, his breath brushing against my lips, his thumb still playing with me like he’s testing how far he can push.

His eyes flick up to mine, dark and certain.

“I’ll starve you and give you nothing.”

I snap out of it, barely. My brain fires up just in time to shove his hand away from my mouth, my palm landing against his jaw, not soft, but not a slap either. A warning. Maybe.

I straighten my posture, try to shake him off, but my skin still burns where he touched me. My lips are tingling. My body is betraying me so freaking bad right now.

“Yeah. Not my type,” I lie, forcing the words out with a dry throat.

His smirk widens. He knows I’m full of shit. We both do.

“Is there anything you need to say?” I manage to sound like I still have control, even if my heart is pounding in my chest like it’s about to explode. “You have ten minutes.”

His eyes stay locked on mine, but they dip, just for a second, dragging over my body like he’s already undressing me in his mind. His gaze pauses on my breasts, though they’re fully covered, and his tongue brushes over his bottom lip like he’s savoring a taste he hasn’t even had yet.

“Ten minutes won’t be enough,” he murmurs, his voice dark and soft and dangerous.

His eyes meet mine again, hungry. Amused. Like he already knows how this story will end.

Like he’s already won.

And it makes me hate him even more.

Almost as much as I want him.

Of course, he’s entertained by the fact that I just told him he’s not my type. Who the hell does this man think he is?

I silently pray no one overheard our conversation. If my parents found out, they’d lose their minds. My first day at work is already shaping up to be a disaster.

“The conversation is over,” Lorenzo suddenly shouts, his voice cutting through the room. He straightens in his seat, his gaze locked onto mine. “Can I leave now? I’ve got better things to do.”

I blink, stunned.

What the hell just happened?

Did he really call everyone out of the room and demand privacy with me just to ask if I was wearing underwear?

Before I can fully process, the door opens, and Ian walks in, his expression hard.

“What did you talk about?” Ian asks, his tone sharp as his eyes flick between Lorenzo and me.

“What?” I reply, still disoriented.

“What did you two talk about?” Ian asks again, this time more pointed.