Page 6 of Personal Foul
“Fine. You don’t want to fuck me. So then it’s not a problem if I sleep in your bed tonight. You let me do that, I’ll give you the pictures back.”
I hesitate. But he’s right. He can’t drive, and I do feel the tiniest bit sorry for him having to relive his bumbled catch over and over again tonight.
“Fine,” I agree reluctantly.
He grins wide and hands the pictures back to me, which I snatch from him immediately.
“I already took photos of them with my phone anyway.”
“Easton, I swear if you did and you don’t delete them, I will fucking throttle you.”
“Good thing that sounds like fun.”
And then, because the man has pushed every last button I have, I toss the pictures onto my desk and launch myself at him. I end up on top of him, and I get two good blows in to his arm and his side before he grabs me, tosses me on to my back and pins my wrists down above my head. A position he is very pleased with, as his stunned look morphs into smugness.
“I hate yousofucking much Westfield.”
“Huh. That’s weird. That sounded a whole lot like I want to fuck yousofucking bad, East.”
There’s a wicked grin on his face now as he studies me.
I choke out a laugh. “You wish.”
“I do. So stop looking at me like that.” His brow furrows ever so slightly.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to fuck you. You do it all the fucking time when you think I don’t see you.”
“You’re fucking delusional.” I roll my eyes. Apparently, I’ve been too obvious. I try to keep my ogling discreet because I don’t want him or anyone else to know. Because it’s embarrassing as hell that I do actually have brains, sense, and reason on my side, and I’m still brought down by my baser impulses.
“Am I?” He pushes my wrists together and locks them both with one hand. Because his are huge. Part of the reason it was a fucking travesty he couldn’t hang on to the dropped ball. Not that I’m going to say that. I’m a bitch, but not a heinous bitch, after all.
His other hand drifts down my side, over my bare skin, and teases the edge of the bra I have on. It’s nothing sexy. And definitely nothing I planned for him to see. Just a good old trusty one I wear on nights I work for full support under my work tee, and I can’t wait to hear what derogatory thing he has to say about it. How it compares to whatever the fuck all his high-end club girls wear for him.
“Let me take it off. I want to see you. Especially after looking at those photos.”
“You just said you weren’t in the mood for a strip show.”
“I lied. I want you naked. I’ll strip for you if you want. I’ve got a bottle of vodka up here. We can lay here and drink some.” His eyes drift over my body as he talks. “Please. I need something to get my mind off all of this shit. I won’t touch you if you don’t want.”
“What?” I ask, breathy and so fucking confused. IfIdon’t want? But he wants? What in the hell is happening right now… There is no way Westfield is actually pleading with me to get naked.
His brow furrows and his eyes return to my face. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I need a shower,” I say, and he releases my wrists.
I climb out from underneath him and stand again. I should walk away, hurry and shut myself in my bathroom far away from him and hope by the time I get out that he’s gone. But I don’t. I take a breath and look back at him over my shoulder. Braving out what I’m about to say, even though I know it’s a bad idea.
“You coming?”
And the way his eyes go soft at the offer, I feel a flutter of something in my chest. Something that worries me. The rich boy is more dangerous than I gave him credit for.
FOUR
Easton
“What?”I can’t believe I heard her right.
