Page 31 of Make Me Hunt
“Do tell,” he presses, amused impatience in his voice, like I’m about to confess he can go screw himself, along with his new girlfriend—or whatever she is.
But if he wants an answer, I’m going to give him one. “My feet are killing me. No one can stand on these heels for this long.”
“Oh, I see,” he says, taking a step closer. His hands move gently to one of my calves, making sure he peels off my shoes first.
It feels like heaven. I didn’t realize how bad my feet hurt until they found freedom. He then lifts one of my legs, gently enough to make it extremely sensual. His eyes lock onto mine, making my pulse bolt like it’s a damn racehorse.
I fucking hate him for making me feel this way. But I can’t help myself from wanting him all over me right now. And I’m not talking about just his hands.
As if he’s listening in on my thoughts, he lifts my foot, his fingers brushing over my sheer pantyhose, then gliding along as he rubs to ease the pain.
It feels so fucking good—almost unreal. And maybe it is unreal because just a few minutes ago, he had that tramp draped all over his neck.
A surge of anger overcomes me again, just thinking about how he stood me up. Or maybe I set myself up to fail.
I never planned on being his conquest, but the princess treatment had an effect on me I didn’t expect. I never received gifts. Except for the things Elias got me. But nothing else. Definitely not anything as extravagant as this dress.
The main problem is that I was never cared for. I’ve always been on my own, at least financially. And it felt nice for a change. But maybe it’s all in my mind, and the dress is just his way of making sure I don’t embarrass him, since he paraded me out as his image for the night.
I don’t know what to believe about this man anymore, especially as he keeps rubbing my foot, then sets it against his chest while reaching for the other one, like he’s just making room to get what he’s really after.
Now would be the perfect moment to let my foot slide down his shirt, over his pants, to check out that impressive bulge and press my toes against it. I’d let my foot glide off the fabric until I’d feel him hard beneath it, his breath hitching and his muscles tensing.
But the very next second, I get the urge to kick him in the face. I’m no one’s toy. Nor am I a whore to be tossed aside for a better option.
He cut a man’s dick off for sending me a picture, yet he shows up flaunting another woman.
Well, fuck him. I pull my legs back. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.” I snap, my feet hitting the ice box with a loud thump.
“You don’t, huh?” His brow furrows as he takes a step backward. The lust in his eyes turns into a shadow of anger. I’m guessing he doesn’t hear the wordno that often.
I’m back on my feet before he knows it, scrambling to get my shoes back on.
“Then, if you’re fine, your break’s over. I expect you back in two minutes,” his words cut right through me, like he’d slash me right here if I dared to contradict him.
I let him leave first, then follow him back to the fucking table.
And if him ordering me around isn’t bad enough, my pussy’s damn reaction aggravates everything. The treacherous hoe can’t stop thinking about him. I feel it every time I’m near him. Maybe because he’s the only man who ever made herfeelanything. At least anything I haven’t forced myself to feel. Because sometimes I try way too much to get aroused, to enjoy a man’s touch—or even sex. Just so I won’t feel so broken for a while.
Well, I’m not going to let my cuntget me killed. People die from bullets, not from a lack of sex.
I return to the table and notice a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé Gold Limited Edition. Of course, he took out the good stuff for her. And the bitch doesn’t even seem impressed that the champagne in her glass costs more than my car.
What really gets me is how she seems to be extra nice to everyone, like she’s flirting with every damn human being in sight. And I know exactly why she’s doing that. She wants the spotlight; she wants everyone’s attention so she can be the celebrity of the night. I’m just surprised that Ares doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. Especially, since I just watched her brush a waiter’s arm.
And that was no accident.
How the hell do I get an appendage in my trunk, while this one almost humps the first guy she lays eyes on?
That just pisses me off more. I feel like I’m going to pop a vessel while my feet explode because I spend another two hours watching that bimbo flirt with Ares, or whatever the fuck she’s doing. And he doesn’t flinch in annoyance once, unlike the 24/7 irritation I get out of him.
I think some of my blisters have ruptured by now, and the only thing that distracts me from this hell is trying to eavesdrop on the guards around me. They’re talking about something big that’s coming in the next couple days, and I know exactly what that is. Just another confirmation that Ares is elbow-deep in this.
It’s almost five a.m., and this damn party doesn’t seem to be dying. I guess dropping that much on a ticket makes everyone think they should party till sunrise. But just as I’m watching my watch—exasperated that I’ll have to stand for even longer—I see Ares signaling his guards that he’s leaving.
As much as I want this night to be over, I don’t want to watch him leave with her.
He offers Goldilocks his hand, helps her up, then escorts her out of the club without so much as a glance my way.Motherfucker.
