Page 60 of Frozen Hearts
On the plus side, my crushing anxiety has given way to anger—an emotion I’m far more comfortable managing.
“Me,” he retorts, smirking like the cat who got the cream.
There’s a raw cunning behind his eyes. An astute awareness that hints at the deliberate nature of this move.
How the hell did he even find me?
This can’t possibly be a coincidence. The fact he specificallyaskedfor me tells me it isn’t. It tells me, since the last time we crossed paths, he’s been looking into me—a fact that sits uncomfortably in my stomach as I scowl down at him.
Tilting my head, I run my gaze over his relaxed posture, taking note of theI could destroy you with the flick of my wristvibes he’s practically pumping into the air.
“Why are you really here?”
He glances lazily past me, out onto the main club floor. “For a dance, of course. Why else would someone come here?”
“I’m not sucking your dick,” I blurt before closing my eyes as I internally cringe.
Subtle, Riley.
His chuckle is the most pompous sound I’ve ever heard.
“I believe you’ve given me this spiel already. If I remember correctly, it went something like you’d rather bathe in horse shit, dunk your face in acid, and rub your body in gasoline before you suck my dick.”
I’d feel bad if he didn’t look so fucking cocky.
“Then why are you here?” I repeat. “I thought I made my point last time, but if you need me to spell it out more clearly…”
That unwavering smirk continues. Is the asshole enjoying this?
“Maybe I plan on making you eat your words, Babydoll.”
Ignoring his stupid nickname meant to rile me up, and how rough and rasping his voice is—it’s totally unfair that such an ugly personality can be wrapped in such a sinful body—I scoff, momentarily forgetting that pissing him off could result in me incurring Ben’s wrath and ultimately losing my job.
“How did you know who I was? That I worked here?” I ask instead, moving the topic of conversation to safer territory.
At my sharp tone, his gaze narrows, eyes scouring my face before slowly lowering to trace over the swell of my breasts and curves of my hips, enhanced by the restraining fabric of my corset.
His facial features may as well be carved from stone. I couldn’t read him if I had a magnifying glass and a map.
“I paid for a dance, not an interrogation,” he drawls in a detached tone, following it up with a haughty arch of his eyebrow when I fail to move.
After a drawn-out moment, his gaze shifts to something behind me. “Or, I could go tell your manager that I’m not getting my money’s worth.”
My fingers twitch with the desire to curl into a fist as I grind my molars. One side of the asshole’s lips lifts in what can only be his version of a smile. He knows damn well he’s cornered me.
Reluctantly, with stiff, awkward movements, I step between his parted legs and begin to sway my hips. There’s no enthusiasm behind it. No desire.
Only pure, mechanical movement.
After several tense moments, where the air thickens with tension until it’s suffocating, he huffs out a breath. “You can do better than that, Babydoll. I’ve seen you on that stage.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he says, “I know how bewitchingly you can dance.”
15
ROYCE
Riley forces her body to relax, but it’s obvious she isn’t as confident as she was when I watched her on stage last weekend. The fluidity; the ease at which she moved, none of that is present. Her body was like a piece of art, the way it gracefully transitioned around the stage that night, but now… the movements are stiff. Forced. There’s no desire. No compulsion to bend to the music’s will.
Regardless, she looks just as beautiful as she did last time, in her deep navy corset with black lace, short black skirt, garter, and stockings. She’s every man’s wet dream, her auburn hair and smattering of freckles along the bridge of her nose only adding to her appeal.
