Page 18 of Hostile Cravings
Glancing over his shoulder, his brow furrowing, he studied me.
“I’m no worse than you, Tyson,” I said, looking away from his heavy stare and working my way down the bed.
“Damn, Anj, stop moving.” He stomped back to my bags. “What do you need?”
“My hairbrush,” I mumbled.
“Your hair looks fine.”
I subconsciously ran my fingers through it, knowing it didn’t and wondering why he was telling me it did. Opening my smaller suitcase, he started tossing things around, and I cringed. “Could you be any rougher?”
Glancing up at me, he smirked. Shit, those smirks were starting to melt me instead of irritate me like they usually did.
“I definitely can.”
Rolling my eyes, I scooted closer, but his eyes shiftedwith an unspoken threat in them before they dropped back down. I really didn’t want him going through my things and my heart pounded as I realized I didn’t want him seeing any part of me that wasn’t what I put on display.
“Tyson, stop,” I said as he pulled my makeup bag out and turned it over in his hands, studying it.
“What is this?” he asked, unzipping the large bag and rummaging through my makeup.
“It’s my makeup, asshole. What does it look like?” I snapped.
“You use all this?”
“Shut up, Tyson, and get out of my bags.”
But he stood there, looking through it, picking up my concealer, then my powder, my mascara, and bunching them in his hands. He walked to the trash can and dropped them all in, emptying the entire bag as I cursed him.
“You piece of shit! Put those back.” I rose from the bed, limping toward him, and he threw the empty bag into my suitcase, grabbing my wrists as I went to hit him.
“What else are you hiding, Angie? Why hide behind all that shit?”
“I hate you, Tyson.”
He jerked my wrists behind me, my body pushing against his in reaction. “Well, I detest you, little viper.”
“Why do you care if I wear makeup? Your whores wear it.”
His face contorted, anger etched around his eyes. “I don’t sleep with whores, so stop calling them that.”
“Then what do you call them?”
“Women, bitch. What do you call the idiots you let fuck you every night?” The vitriol in his voice was like venom and a vein swelled in his neck. His grip on my wrists was so tight they were aching.
“Men—”
“Spoiled trust fund brats. Boys who pretend to be men.”
“Shut up. At least they have class, not like the bimbos yousleep with.” I didn’t know why I was so furious about the women he’d slept with suddenly. Or why it mattered to me who they were.
“Trust me, they weren’t bimbos. If you’d like me to prove that, I’d be happy to call the resort manager up here and have her ride me the rest of the night.”
“What do I care? This is all a sham, anyway. Go ahead and sleep with her. I don’t give a shit.”
His features shifted again, and I couldn’t read the expression that seemed to morph from confusion to hurt to anger. It reflected the emotions that were whipping through me and when he let me go, smoothed his shirt, and walked to the door, disappointment and envy crashed through me.
“Tyson,” I said, hearing the plea, the desperate need for him not to leave me alone. To not turn to another woman…even if we weren’t anything more than enemies, two people who couldn’t stand each other.
