Page 68 of The True Garza
“Shoes. Off.”
After I’ve doffed my boots—which took much longer than needed—he pokes me at the center of my back, prodding me to move. I hate him.
Hesitantly, I shuffle to the end of the narrow foyer, which spills into a large, airy, open-plan space. With contemporary appliances, oversized furniture, and huge, colorful art pieces on the walls. The decor is somewhat manic, incohesive. Yet, it’s the perfect depiction of the owner.
Goosebumps spread across my skin when his words hit me from behind, “Take off your jeans.”
Aw shit. “No.”
Cold air brushes at my back as his heat and presence disappear.
Just like that, my body yearns for his heat again. When I glance over my shoulder in search of him, I see he’s gone to the kitchen.
Without looking up, he repeats, “Take off your jeans, London.”
Of its own volition, my hand moves and pops the button of my jeans.
You’re stronger than this, London. He doesn’t own you. You don’t have to do what he says.
I hear the clink of ice. The smooth, quiet pour of whiskey. It turns me on more than he does. And just like that, I’m lowering the zipper of my jeans.
Stop it. “Take me home.”
“Soon.”
As I’m wrestling with myself, his heat appears at my back again, and with it, the gorgeous aroma of aged whiskey.
An arm curves around me and wafts a highball glass of amber liquid under my nose, then touches the cold glass to my lips and feeds me just a drop.
Relishing the sip, I lick my lips. “You’re teasing me with alcohol even after I told you I abuse it?”
“You made me drive for an hour.” He removes the glass. “And you refused to hold my hand under the table when you knew Ineededyou to.”
Not fair. And not the same thing. But there’s no point arguing with an asshole.
“Take off your jeans.”
“No.”
With a low growl in his throat, he hooks a finger into one of my belt loops and tugs me across to the living area. He sets the liquor on the coffee table, then sits himself down at the edge so his face is in line with my crotch.
With an amused smirk, he flicks a finger at my unzipped jeans. “Had a little fight with yourself, Lonny?”
“I’m not fucking you, True.”
“That’s fine.” He grips the waist of my jeans on both sides and drag them down my legs. “Lift.”
With begrudging obedience, I lift my legs so he can get my jeans off completely, then toss them to the couch.
As he observes my lace panties, his fingers dust lightly along my inner thighs. “Hmm. Sexier than I expected them to be.”
Irritated, I start to turn away, but he pulls me back by a firm grip of said panties.
They rip.
Unapologetic, he drags them down and off.
And there I am. Bare before him. Dripping. Burning up. Horny and angry.
