Page 24 of Twisted Proposal

I wanted a man.

I wanted hot, powerful, and dominant.

A man who didn't play at being in charge, a man who had the world at his feet.

The type of man who took what he wanted, demanded control and had earned every single bit of it. That was who I wanted whispering "good girl" into my ear in dark praise.

I closed my eyes for a second and all I could picture were steel-gray eyes burning with desire.

Artem's gaze, hungry and possessive.

His broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world.

His large hands, rough with callouses, gentle on my skin.

My chest tightened.

Would he burst through the door if I were in danger?

Would he sweep in like some dark knight?

The very thought ignited a flash of anger.

Artem was no savior.

He was just another man who wanted to control me, to own me.

I didn't need saving—especially not by him.

Shaking myself out of it, I took the shots while Amy handed me a Smirnoff Ice.

I looked at her with raised eyebrows as she took a sip of her own and called it chick beer.

Whatever that meant.

It was sweet like strawberries. I'd barely swallowed my first taste when she pulled me to the dance floor, where strobe lights sliced through clouds of smoke, turning faces into grotesque masks one second and shadow creatures the next.

We danced and laughed and everything was perfect.

Whenever I finished a drink, the empty bottle was pulled from my hand and one of the other girls replaced it with a new one.

Amy called it "girl code."

We only ever gave each other drinks. Never taking drinks from men we didn't know or didn't see them make. The Jell-O shots were an exception only because one of the girls brought them.

I hadn't even thought of that, but I felt safe as long as Amy was with me.

The music had taken control at some point and my body moved with a weightlessness I'd never experienced. My skin buzzed, as the room tilted and spun in kaleidoscopic fragments.

Suddenly, everything the frat boys said was super funny.

I was laughing more than I had in all the years since Dima died.

I was letting myself live, letting myself be free, and it felt so good.

Like every other good thing in my life, as soon as I let my guard down, it turned dark.

Suddenly the hands touching me weren't small, delicate hands tipped with pink acrylic nails, they were large and rough and grabby. Fingers pressed into my skin, leaving invisible marks that burned like brands.