Page 174 of Irreversible

I idle between his thighs, my adrenaline heightening. I imagined him to be good-looking—rough, built, and darkly attractive—but he’sbeautiful. Bone structure cut from stone, a stubbled jawline, lightly tanned skin, muscles rippling and hard-earned. He oozes sex appeal and edgy intrigue. His hair looks soft and silky, a tousling of waves on top and cropped shorter in the back. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I motion to run my fingertips through it.

But my hand stalls mid-reach when he snags me by the wrist.

I go still, slowly turning to take in the contact.

His hand. On me.

His grip is bruising—punishing—and my pulse speeds up as my fingers curl into a fist.

I try to pull away, but his hold doesn’t loosen. “Let me go.”

He doesn’t. His opposite hand is balled-up beside his thigh, every muscle flexing with suppression. I know he’s affected by this.

“Talk to me,” I demand, wiggling free and stumbling away from him. Veins line his arms in ropes, pulsing and dilating as he cups his kneecaps with both hands. “Say something…anything.”

Nothing.

More silence.

I watch him guardedly through the low-lit room, our eyes a tangle of history and uncertainty. My black-and-yellow-striped bralette and sheer skirt hardly cover anything and have me feeling vulnerable and exposed—and that’s usually the point. But I’m pretty sure I could be wearing a woolly parka, and I’d still feel bare under his gaze.

Lifting my chin, I find an ounce of courage and narrow my eyes on him. “Fine. You seem to like games. Let’s play, then.” My high heels dig into the rug as I stomp forward and shove him back on the couch, both of my palms planting on his chest, until he collapses with a sharp breath.

I mount him, straddling his lap with my knees on either side of his hips.

Then I wiggle.

He hisses.

“I’ll give you your fifty-eight-minute lap dance, and then you leave. Stop following me. Stop messing with my head.” Tears prick my eyes. My voice cracks, agony inching its way to the surface. “I can’t do it.”

His two curled hands lie dormant beside my knees. I watch as he splays his fingers, then fists them again before letting out an exhale. The warm air beats against my lips, and I realize my thighs are squeezing his legs so hard I’m trembling. I loosen my hold and lift, my fingertips grazing up his arms until my hands are propped on his shoulders for support.

I want him to see the pain in my eyes and rip off the mask.

I want him to say something.

I want him to be the man he was, back when he was the only man I had.

But he still says nothing.

My fingernails dig into his shoulders, my anger soaring back at his aloofness. “This is what you wanted, right?” I dip my face lower until we’re a hair’s breadth apart. “It’s why you’ve been watching me dance? You’ve been fantasizing about this. Your hands on me…” I brush my lips to the side of his jaw. “Your mouth on me.”

My own words strangle me.

Moisture pools inside my underwear.

And Ihatethis.

I hate that after all we’ve been through, this is where we ended up: a second-rate fantasy in a stripper suite.

Grinding against his groin, I feel his hardness press into my inner thigh. A shuddery breath falls out as my hands cradle the sides of his neck, and I sway and move and writhe to this wayward dance he’s forced us into.

But then his palm slides up my spine.

Grips the back of my neck.

In a flash, I’m flung off his lap like I weigh nothing and shoved down to the couch, his body covering mine as his eyes burn like hot coals.

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