Page 28 of Wicked Spite
“I am. Isn’t it great?” he asks, feigning innocence as he takes another sip of his drink. His gaze never wavers, burning into me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“Nothing about my life is great,” I mutter, nothing but apathy in my voice. Deep down, I know he’s right. But the thought of giving in to it, of allowing myself to be drawn into his fucked-up world, terrifies me.
“And if I’m so delusional, then why do you keep looking at me like that?” he challenges, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Like you want to rip my clothes off and fuck me senseless?”
“After you ran out on me, you don’t ever have to worry about that again,” I shoot back, my cheeks burning with a mix of anger and arousal at the mental image he just provided me. “And I won’t let myself be your pawn.”
“Who said anything about chess?” he replies, his eyes locked on mine. “I like to think of it more as…an experiment.”
“An experiment? For fucking what?” I scoff, my heart pounding wildly against my chest. “You really are psychotic.”
“Absolutely, I am. A pyromaniac too, I fear,” he concedes, his smirk never leaving his face. “But don’t pretend you’re not curious, Reagan. Don’t pretend you don’t want to see just how far down the rabbit hole goes.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. Because despite my better judgment, despite the countlessreasons I have to stay away from him, I can’t deny the magnetism that surrounds this man.
“Thought so,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down my spine as I move from behind the bar to go deliver drinks to a table.
I glare at Penn, and because I’m so focused on the barbs, we’ve just exchanged that I don’t see it coming when he suddenly reaches out and grabs my arm, yanking me down onto his lap.
“Wha–” I start to protest, but he silences me by cupping my chin and crushing his lips against mine. His grip is unyielding, and the kiss itself is rough, demanding, as if he’s trying to stake a claim on me.
I betray everything I’ve told myself for a moment. My lips part involuntarily, my breath hitching as our tongues meet and it leaves me feeling dizzy and disoriented.
But then, just as quickly as it began, Penn releases me. I wrench myself away from him, my face flushed and my heart racing. Confusion and anger war within me—I feel unsteady, and I hate the unpredictability of him.
“Get off!” I snap, shoving myself off his lap and taking a step back. He smiles at me, clearly amused by my reaction.
“Didn’t seem like you hated it,” he taunts, his eyes filled with mischief.
“Fuck you,” I retort, struggling to regain control of the situation, sounding like a broken record. When I argue with drunken patrons or even my father, I have no trouble coming up with snappy words that jab and they’re successful in twisting the knife where it hurts. With Penn, I resort to middle school insults because he ties my thoughts in knots I can’t undo.
“Later, sweetheart,” he replies with a wink, making myblood boil even more. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he’s affected me.
“Keep dreaming,” I scoff, turning on my heel away from him. I refuse to let him derail my night any further, no matter how much he might have stirred something inside me.
I storm away from Penn, the pounding of my heart echoing in my ears. How dare he? The nerve of him to just pull me in like some kind of possession. I feel the heat of my anger rise to my cheeks as I go back to what I was doing, but it’s not enough to mask the lingering sensation of his lips against mine.
“Hey, Reagan,” a regular customer calls out, trying to catch my attention. “Another round here, please!”
“Coming right up,” I respond with a tight smile, forcing my focus back on the job and away from the infuriating man who has made it his mission to rattle me tonight.
“Thanks, gorgeous,” he says with a wink. I roll my eyes at the empty compliment, but it’s a welcome distraction from the intensity that still lingers in the air around Penn.
As I pour drinks and serve customers, I can’t shake the feeling that comes from being watched. Despite my best efforts to ignore him, I can feel Penn’s unwavering gaze burning into me. It’s as if he’s dissecting every inch of my being with his eyes alone, peeling away my carefully constructed defenses.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, cursing him or myself. I’m not even sure anymore.
A drop of sweat trickles down my temple as I balance another tray of drinks, my muscles tense with the effort. The bar is packed tonight, bodies pressed together surrounded by laughter and music, but all I can focus on is Penn.
“Here,” I say curtly, setting a fresh drink before him. Hedoesn’t even glance at the glass, his penetrating eyes remaining locked on mine.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he replies smoothly, not even bothering to hide the sex dripping from his voice.
I roll my eyes, torn between the urge to punch him and kiss him senseless. “Don’t call me that.”
“Ah, my apologies,” he says with mock sincerity, his lips curling into a wicked grin. “What would you prefer, then? Darling? Babe? Or something more…sassy?”
“Shut up, Penn.” My cheeks flush with heat, both from anger and embarrassment. I turn away, determined to keep busy and ignore the prickling sensation that races down my spine whenever he’s nearby.
