Page 137 of The Fine Line
Her spine stiffens. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“We’ll see.”
She bites down on the inside of her cheek, her jaw tight as my eyes travel down the length of her.
“How wet are you right now?”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“Show me.”
“I’m not going to?—”
“I said,” I cut in, dragging the stool across the tile with a low scrape before sitting down, “show me.”
Her back goes ramrod straight.
I lift my chin once. Push her without touching her.
She exhales sharply, glaring at me—then slowly spreads her legs. The slit in her dress falls away, revealing a tiny white thong, silky and edged in lace.
It’s soaked.
So soaked it’s nearly transparent.
My breath catches.
I drag a hand over my mouth, then look up at her. “Now,” I mutter, “tell me more about that line.”
“What line?”
“The one between hate and love. Tell me, Cub. How fine is it, really?”
She drops her gaze. “I didn’t mean that.”
“No?” I arch a brow. “So you say things you don’t mean?”
She glances away. “It just felt like the right thing to say at the time—to keep up our act.”
“Our act.” I hum. “So all performances aside, what does that line really look like?”
“For us?”
“For you.”
She exhales through her nose, lifting her chin. “Extra bold,” she says. “I don’t think you could even call it a line. A wall, maybe. A great brick one.”
“You’re saying you hate me.”
“Yes.”
I lean in slightly. “Is this one of those things you don’t mean?”
She doesn’t blink. “I mean it.”
“Then tell me why you’re so wet.”
My eyes lock on hers.
