Page 16 of Fifth Avenue Devil

I lift my chin defiantly. "And you look like a cartoon dog with its tongue rolling out. Down, boy."

His expression of complete surprise delights me. "Are you saying that you wouldn't spend the night in my bed?" He sits down beside me just as the lights begin to dim.

"In your dreams, Nate Fordham."

As I say it, my heart thuds so hard against my ribs that I am sure it's about to break free and crawl out of the box we're sitting in.

His silver eyes narrow on my face. "No woman says no to me."

I shrug, trying to pretend that my heart isn’t hammering in my chest as I speak. "I do."

The orchestra begins the overture and I slide forward, leaning my elbows on the box's ledge.

He stares at me for several seconds, then shakes his head. "We're going to talk about this later," he husks out.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," I fire back.

The first ballerina springs onto the stage. The orchestra is loud and wonderfully distracting. I try to focus my attention on the stage.

Nate slides closer on the bench. I glance at him and his eyes are on the stage, as they should be. I breathe a sigh of silent relief and turn back to the ballet.

But half a minute later, Nate's hand lands on my thigh. My heart starts hammering relentlessly. "Mr. Fordham!" I scold him.

"Shh." He nods at the stage. "Keep your eyes on the performance."

"But your hand?—"

"Is comfortable where it's at," he finishes the sentence for me. "Now be quiet."

I feel like I've swallowed my tongue. Staring at Nate so hard that I should burn a hole in one of his perfectly chiseled cheeks does no good. He doesn't move his hand, which rests just above the hem of my skirt.

At last, I look away from him and stare angrily at the ballerinas that fly across the stage. My mind is working overtime.

Nate moves his hand ever so slightly. He plucks at the beaded hem of my skirt, his fingertips trailing down to skate across my bare thigh. I squirm, trying to move away.

What is he doing?

Most of the time, I want to throttle Nate Fordham. Not let him touch me so... intimately.

Just because he's handsome as sin doesn't mean that I want to throw myself at him. Maybe if he were a little less irritating, we would be having a very different conversation.

Am I just a prude?I wonder to myself. Sure, I'm still a virgin. And my parents kept me essentially locked up, controlling my social life until I escaped their home at twenty-two. But I don’t think of myself as uptight or judgy. Especially compared to the illustrious Monique Gellar.

According to my mother, I have to be prim and proper until I marry... well, someone like the man I am sitting next to. Then I can be a freak and a slut once I have a Cartier ring on my finger. Sadly for Mom, that marriage is not on the table right now. If it were, my mother would be cheering Nate on, telling me to do whatever it takes.

The thought turns my stomach.

When Nate starts edging my skirt up, I bare my teeth at him. "If you don't stop, I'll scream."

He smiles at me, something devious flashing in his eyes. "You can leave this booth if you want to," he says, looking at the door. "No one is stopping you."

I give him a prim little smile and try to brush away his hand. "I could, but I want to watch the ballet."

Nate's eyes turn toward the stage. "I want you to watch the ballet too, Kitten."

"Don't call?—"

His fingers over my lips silence me. "So damn argumentative," he whispers. "I want to make you feel good, Annalise."

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