Page 79 of Carnal Games

Jesus. I no longer intimidate her.

Trouble.

Big fucking trouble.

“Get off that stage,” I order, rather harshly.

“Say yes first,” she counters, like we’re in a negotiation.

I knew it.

She orchestrated all of this for a silly interview and put her life at risk. I don’t know whether or not her boldness is commendable or a cry for help.

“Off. That. Stage.” I’m on the last thread of my patience. She’s going to bear the brunt of the snap of my impatience if I lose it. I warn her, “I will not repeat it a third time.”

“Say yes. Not for the interview, but a meeting to put my case.”

Sensing the burning gaze of everyone on us the longer we stand at a stalemate, I grunt, “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Oh, she won’t be so grateful in a minute.

Obviously not done torturing me, her small, delicate hands skim down her sides and along her waist. Teasing me with the shape of her body hidden beneath the softest fabric that clings to her curves, like it can’t resist the feel of her soft skin.

Her fingers tighten as she lifts the hem of her gown, blessing me with the view of her pink-tipped toes to the curve of her ankles in the sky-high heels.

The dark color of her dress against her creamy flesh makes her look fucking edible.

I can’t decide which dress of hers is worse for my soul. The mini one she wore last night, which left her entire back and long legs on display. Or the one I can’t pry my eyes off right now, which bares her tits too indecently.

The flash of gold around her wrist floods fury in my veins. I snap, “Take the bracelet off.”

Her breath hitches and for once, she obeys my command without a second thought and presses it into my waiting palm. The brief contact of her fingertips on my skin sends a painful joltthrough my entire body. I crush the offensive piece of item and pocket it.

She freezes when I say, “Put on your engagement ring.”

The words taste like someone poured acid down my throat. I want to take them back as soon as they hang in the air between us.

Which is a wrong emotion.

Utterly wrong and inappropriate.

Fidgeting, she nervously murmurs, “I didn’t… I left it at home.”

My shoulders relax. Her answer feels pleasant for some odd reason. I restrain myself from reaching out for her when she gracefully climbs down from the stage. I wouldn’t put it past me to set it on fire before the night is over.

As we navigate between the tables, her timidly following behind me, I have the violent urge to slam every head down on the table that dares to glance at her. I increase my pace, hearing her trying to catch up with my long steps.

Realizing she’s wearing heels that might scar her feet, I slow down.

“Where are we going?” she asks once we enter the darkened hallway.

“My office.”

“Why?”

“You wanted a meeting, didn’t you?” I taunt. “You’re about to get your wish for which you went to such crazy lengths.”

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