Page 73 of Mr. Wicked

“Right,” I repeated.

Which was as bitter a word as fine, but I’d chosen to go with the prior.

The latter sounded more like I was in agreement.

And I wasn’t.

Because I wasn’t sure if I could stop my heart from growing feelings since I already had them.

Maybe I could hide them from him?

Maybe I could set them aside in hopes that by being intimate, his would start to grow?

“I also don’t need to remind you how badly I don’t want to be tied down and how I don’t want a fucking wife ... do I?”

Where had this come from?

I thought we’d just shared something amazingly sexy, his walls finally coming down, but I was wrong.

Unless there was another side to this.

That he was deflecting because he couldn’t deal with how he was feeling.

That he didn’t want to admit it.

And that he was shocked at how badly he wanted me.

At least if it was the latter, I had hope. But how long would this continue? Would he ever let me in?

I had no idea.

All I knew was that he was an asshole.

The man who had come into my apartment and volunteered to help Sloane and toured my bedroom and appeared remotely interested in me—that man was gone.

Vanished.

And in his place was the side of him I despised.

He used a nasty attitude so no one could penetrate his exterior; he spit venom so no one would even get close enough to try.

I knew his type.

I wasn’t an idiot. I could put two and two together.

The thing was, I also knew a hint of softness existed within him, like when I’d opened up about my family and the way the girls had treated me in high school, and he’d told me I was worthy. He could have torn me down. He could have come back with something sarcastic, like usual.

But he didn’t.

He tried to build me up.

But that was only half of it. The other half were the quiet moments. The ones where his eyes did all the talking, like when we were in the hallway at the bar, the night before the meeting with Laura. When he was deep in conversation with Sloane at our apartment and stole glances at me. During our dates at the restaurants, when there was a stillness between us and he appeared so content, so glued to my gaze, that he did nothing to break it.

Those were the instances where I’d peeked below his shield, and I’d seen hints of what he was capable of.

He wouldn’t want to hear that, to know I’d figured him out.

So instead I voiced, “I don’t need the reminder. I know how badly you want my pussy—your hard-on gave that away—and just how badly you don’t want my heart.” My voice was as edged as I could make it.

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