Page 60 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Sit.

The reality of the situation sinks in. I’m completely helpless caught in his game. I’m just a pawn, someone to control, something to pass the time. If I don’t sit, I’m aware that it’ll only make this worse. That I have no say in how he does anything.

With a sharp breath, I finally move, sitting down beside him. The chair feels cold, the space between us charged with an energy that makes my skin prickle. I can feel his presence beside me, overwhelming, consuming, and I hate it.

I hate him.

I keep my gaze forward, refusing to look at him. I won’t give him the satisfaction. But I can feel his eyes on me, like a constant weight, measuring, assessing, waiting.

Cassidy quietly takes the seat at the row in front of us, her eyes flicking between Thatcher and me, her unease palpable. I can feel her worry, but I can’t meet her gaze. Not now, not when everything feels so…wrong. The tension is suffocating, and it’s all I can do to keep from clenching my fists in my lap.

Professor Miller walks in, mercifully breaking the tension. The chatter in the room dies down, but the current between Thatcher and me remains, buzzing in the silence, refusing to be ignored.

Thatcher doesn’t say anything as the professor begins to speak, but I feel his hand settle on my thigh, too high up to be called decent, a bold, possessive gesture that sends a wave of heat and discomfort through me. The touch is so inappropriate, so wrong, but he doesn’t seem to care.

I try to stay focused on the professor, but every word is drowned out by the rapid beat of my pulse. The hand on my thigh feels like it’s burning into me, a constant reminder of Thatcher’s presence, his dominance over me, even in a room full of people. My hands are trembling, and I fight to keep them still, afraid that if I make any move, it’ll only draw more attention.

The next two hours feel like an eternity, each minute dragging on painfully. The professor’s voice becomes a blur in the background, a hum that I can barely hear over the pounding of my heart. My entire focus is consumed by Thatcher’s hand, the way it presses against me, his fingers lightly shifting as if testing my limits, pushing me just a little further.

The class goes on, and I count the minutes until it’s over. Every passing second feels like a small victory, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s winning, that he’s asserting control over me that I can’t break free from.

When the class finally ends, I nearly jump out of my seat, desperate to escape. But Thatcher doesn’t move. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in closer, his voice low and dangerous in my ear.

“Not so fast, Dove,” he murmurs, sending a chill down my spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“Fuck you!” I hiss, glaring at him and push off his hand from my thigh.

The bustling crowd of students leaving the room barely registers in my mind. All I can see is him, his smug expression, and that unwavering confidence.

His smirk only deepens at my outburst, like he’s savoring every bit of my frustration.

“Careful, Dove. People are watching,” he murmurs, his tone low and smooth, barely audible above the murmur of passing students.

I can feel my face flush, a mixture of anger and embarrassment prickling under my skin.

“I don’t care who’s watching. I don’t give a flying fuck.” Pausing, I suck in a breath, my nails digging into my palms. “You don’t get to do this to me.”

He takes a deliberate step closer, and I instinctively pull back, the crowd shifting around us.

“Do what? Tell an insignificant turd to fuck off?” he repeats, tilting his head. “You know I can do whatever I want, Rhea, and besides, he doesn’t matter.” He stares down at me. “Is that why you’re so mad? Because of Connor’s sorry ass?”

The rage in me intensifies. I spit out, “You don’t get to order me, or anyone, around like we’re dogs or your fucking slaves.”

His smirk grows. “But you are, right? My pretty little slave who can’t handle the fact that she’s not in control of her life anymore.”

The words hit me like a slap, sharp and brutal, but I’m not backing down. I dig my nails into my palms, the sting barely registering as I push the words back at him.

“You’re insane if you think that. I’m not anyone’s fucking slave. Not yours, not anyone’s.”

Thatcher steps closer, his presence overwhelming, his eyes locked onto mine with that predatory intensity. “You can keep pretending you’re in control,” he says softly, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost over my skin. “But you’re not. You’re mine, Rhea. Whether you like it or not. And deep down, you know it.”

I feel the cold knot of anger tighten in my chest. Every word he says makes my blood burn, but I can’t let him see how much it’s getting to me.

“You’re wrong. I don’t belong to you. I will never be yours.”

His smirk widens, but there’s something colder in his eyes now, something more calculating.

“Oh, Rhea,” he murmurs, his voice low and mocking. “Fine. Have it your way.”

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