Page 69 of Dance of Defiance
“That’s…” He shivers. “I mean, bottom means…”
“It means you’re the onegettingfucked,” I growl.
Roman shivers, his chest still rising and falling quickly and a slightly panicked expression on his face.
Okay, I’ve tortured him enough…for now. Last thing I need is a closet case having a fucking panic attack in the middle of the club.
Wordlessly, I turn him around, loosen and slip off the belt, then hand it to him before I pat him on the chest.
“Are we…good?” he murmurs.
“Mmm… Still thinking about that.”
I simplycannotresist the urge to fuck with this guy.
“In the meantime,” I add, “I’m going to go use the men's room. Don’t go anywhere, wreckage. I’m having way too much fun with you.”
I turn without another word. That lost expression on his face has mewayharder than it should, and if he wants to make it home tonightwithoutme kissing the fuck out of him in front of everyone, I need to get out of here.
The regular bathrooms are a shitshow, this being a popular club on a Friday night. Luckily, the VIP ones aremuchnicer.
So that's where I go, giving our table and clingy, pathetic Gerard a wide berth.
Once there, I run my hands under cold water and splash a little on my face. I look up into the mirror, forcing my breathing to calm as adrenaline and hunger roar inside me.
What the fuck is he doing?
He’s playing with fucking fire, is what he’s doing. If he keeps looking at me like that, andmoaninglike that, I willnotbe able to stop whatever comes next.
“Whatever” obviously meaning “me slamming him up against the nearest wall or over the closest available flat surface and fucking the confusion right out of?—”
The bathroom door opens behind me. And when I look up, my cock jumps when my eyes meet Roman’s in the mirror.
He looks so unsure. A little drunk, and nervous. A whole lottasexy.
“I—” He breathes in and out heavily as I turn to face him. “I don’t…I mean…”
“Well, well, well,” I murmur quietly. “Look who gotcurious.”
13
ROMAN
Three hours earlier:
The impactof the hit explodes up my arm, thundering through my shoulder as my fist connects with the practice bag. I dodge left, feinting another hook to my imaginary opponent as I duck, weave, then go on the attack again.
Pound. Pound. POUND.
Ideally, I should be taking out my pent-up energy and snarling darkness on a real opponent at one of the underground fights I go to. That’s historically how I’ve blown off steam, how I've battened down the corruption inside of me—that fucking flaw that makes me so weak at times.
And yes, I’m aware of how fucked up it is to call whatever it is that rises up inside me when I'm around Vala flaw, orcorruption.
But hey. Welcome to the wonderful world of self-loathing.
I halt myself mid-swing, letting my fist barely tap the bag before I slump against it, my arms wrapped around it. My chest heaveswith my labored breath, sweat running in rivulets down my bare back and arms.
There are so many things I want to tell myself. So many tried and true mantras that I’ve repeated hundreds of times.
