Page 50 of Psycho Pack

Images flash through my mind.

Images I don't fucking want.

"Fuck off," I snarl, shoving past him. My shoulder clips his, and the brief contact sends electricity down my spine.

"I didn't say anything," he murmurs, the ghost of laughter in his voice.

Smug bastard.

I whirl on him, crowding him back against the wall. He doesn't flinch, just tilts his head back to maintain eye contact. There isn't much of a difference in our height on flat ground, but the angle of the cave floor has me looming over him and the bastard still looks completely in control.

It's fucking maddening.

"You think this is funny?" I demand. "You think fucking with my head is some kind of game?"

"I think," he says carefully, each word precise as a scalpel, "that you're the one playing games with yourself."

My fist slams into the stone beside his head. He doesn't even blink. "I'm not playing anything."

"No?" His eyes flick down to where my body's pressed against his, betraying exactly how affected I am by his proximity. "Interesting reaction for someone so...uninterested."

I should back off. Should walk away. But his scent is filling my head, making it hard to think straight. And the way he'slooking at me, like he can see right through every defense I've built...

"Fuck you," I breathe, but there's no heat in it. Just resignation.

"You can if you want," he says flatly.

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. My fingers dig into the stone wall on either side of his head, trapping him between my arms. He's still looking up at me with that infuriating clinical detachment, like I'm just another one of his fucking experiments.

"What did you just say?" My voice comes out rough, dangerous.

"I said you can fuck me if you want to," he repeats calmly, precisely, like he's discussing the fucking weather. "The offer is simply to prove a point."

I growl low in my throat, pressing closer. His lean body is all hard muscle beneath his remaining clothes. "And what point is that,Doc?"

"That you want this." His pale blue eyes gleam in the darkness. "That you've wanted it since that night in my clinic. You just won't admit it to yourself."

"You smug son of a?—"

"Am I wrong?" he asks, glancing pointedly at the growing bulge in my pants.

"Stop analyzing me," I growl, but Plague just stares back with those cold blue eyes, like he's dissecting my fucking soul.

"I'm not analyzing you." His voice stays clinical, detached. "I'm observing. There's a difference."

"A difference?" I snarl, my fingers digging harder into the stone. Flakes of rock crumble under my grip. "What fucking difference?"

"Analysis implies judgment." His voice stays infuriatingly steady even as my body pins his against the wall. "I'm merelymaking observations. Like how your pupils dilate when I get close. How your breath catches. How your cock?—"

I slam my other hand into the wall, caging him completely. "Shut. Up."

His lips curve into that maddening half-smile. "Make me."

The challenge in his voice snaps something inside me. With a growl, I crash my mouth against his. It's not gentle. Not romantic. Just raw need and pent-up frustration finally breaking free. His lips part instantly, letting me in. Letting me take.

And fuck, does he taste good.

Like mint and something sharper.

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