Page 9 of Big Bad Bully
Billy snatches my jacket from my hands with his signature irritation, and for a moment, I think he’s going to throw it on the floor or something, but he opens it, and holds it out for me.
I stare at my opened coat, dumbfounded. I’m twenty-three years old. I grew up in Jersey and live in Brooklyn. I’ve dated musicians and artists. Social justice warriors. Nice guys with big hearts. But I’ve never once had a guy hold my jacket for me.
The feminist in me wants to demand to know whether he thinks I’m incapable of putting on my own coat, but that would be silly.
Clearly, no man holds a coat for that reason. Just like they don’t hold doors open because we’re too weak to pull a handle. It’s a courtesy. Good manners. Chivalry.
And I don’t hate it.
Especially from a guy who looks like he’d rather suck a lemon than show deference to anyone. I rather like seeing the manners bred into him through fancy prep schools and a Yale education. Almost like something he’s compelled to do rather than wants to do. Like this wedding stuff.
So I accept the gesture, sticking my arms into the jacket and letting him lift and drop it onto my shoulders.
He inhales deeply and then holds his breath.
What the hell? He’s probably only smelled richly-perfumed women in his privileged world.
I twist to look up at him. “Do I smell bad?”
He rubs his nose and gives a quick dismissive shake of his head. “You smell like nutmeg,” he mutters. He puts a hand on my lower back and propels me toward the door.
Nutmeg?
“And honey.”
“So…not bad?” I stop in the open doorway to look up at him again. We’re close–our bodies colliding as he stretches a long arm out to hold the door open for me.
It must be some bizarre biological reaction to his size and sheer power because I’m suddenly turned on. My nipples get stiff, and heat travels south between my legs.
He gives me a formidable scowl. I’ll bet looks like that make the people who work under him run for cover.
I don’t move from my position, wedged in the doorway with him, his arm extending beyond my shoulders to hold the glass door ajar. My lips stretch into a slow smile–my response to his unhappy expression.
Making him scowl is my new favorite pastime.
Billy
Nutmeg and honey. Cafe Girl’s scent is no less potent now than the first time I met her. The way it hits me in the chest and travels south to my groin is both a painful and ecstatic experience.
I want to sink my teeth into her skin and–
No, that’s not right.
I definitely do not want to mark her. Is that what I was imagining?
Fuck no. There’s no way I’d mark a human. Especially not a waste-of-oxygen-nobody like this female. Why would I even picture that?
That’s…so wrong.
Everything about her is wrong. Her feisty attitude, for one. She’s never met anyone she wouldn’t challenge. I doubt she bends a knee for anyone, even if they’re more powerful than her. She’s reckless and willing to put herself in danger for what she believes in. In my dog-eat-dog world, that can be suicide.
It also turns me on. Makes me want to savage her. To shove her against this door frame and wrap my fingers around that long, slender neck. Kiss her with bruising force before I tongue-fuck her mouth.
I want to teach her to drop to her knees for me. To learn to please me.
Fuuuuuuck. The image of her gazing up at me in submission with my cock between those pillowy lips nearly makes me jizz in my trousers.
No.
