Page 60 of Wicked Surrender

But it was her hair, extra full and slightly mussed, that made my dick harder.

Seeing her a little unkempt added to her allure. Like she could look fantastic put together and proper but look even hotter wild and disheveled.

This girl was a living example of how some men wanted a partner who was a cook in the kitchen, a lady in the living room, and a whore in bed.

Me.

I was some men.

I wanted Laura in any way I could have her. As my target to bully so I could release this pent-up anger at her dad. As my lover so I could fuck her until she passed out.

“Oh.” She looked up, stunning me with her expressive face. “Hi.”

I swallowed hard and nodded once. I was too on edge to speak. I had no focus, just obsessed with being near her.

With having her.

Instead of sitting across from her, I dipped to slide onto the vinyl cushion she had claimed.

“What—” She sat up, furrowing her brow as I nudged her to scoot in while I took the space next to her. Caging her into the seat would be hell on my nerves. I was a stupid glutton for punishment to torment myself like this.

But I couldn’t fucking help it.

I was that possessive of her.

“Okay.” She frowned, shifting on the seat again as she reached for the papers and books she’d brought. As she opened the book and glanced at me, I stifled the urge to groan at how good she smelled. How warm she felt. How tempting she was.

No. Don’t.

It’d kill me, but I had to refrain from anything more.

I could look. I could stare. I could dream. But until I could find a mental truce between wanting her and hating her, I refused to act on this desire yanking me toward her.

So, that was what I did. I didn’t speak or move. Keeping my arm resting behind her, propped on the back of the vinyl cushion, I stared at her and repeated the mantra in my head.

Don’t.

Don’t even think about it.

She paused in whatever she was lecturing about. With a sigh, she frowned and tapped her pencil on the book. “So, it’s going to be another one of those nights.”

“What nights?” I asked.

She faced me with mock surprise. “Oh. He speaks.”

“What kind of nights?” I asked.

“Ones where you do that brooding, hulking silent treatment.”

I didn’t reply, mesmerized by how gorgeous she was. With her Chinese father and Irish mother, she was a mix of some sexy-as-fuck genes, unique and exotic like no other.

“Would it kill you to concentrate?” she asked, partly snarky but more impatient about it.

“I am.”

A fucking bomb could go off and I wouldn’t tear my attention from her.

She frowned at me. “All you’re doing is staring.”

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