Page 20 of Cruel When He Smiles
My thumb strokes lightly beneath his jaw, just once, and his pulse jumps under the contact. I don’t press harder. I don’t need to. He’s already giving me everything I want—reaction, resistance, and desire all twisted up behind those pretty green eyes.
“I’m not wearing anything for you,” he lies.
I brush my knuckles over the edge of his jaw. “No? Then what’s this?” My gaze drops to the bare skin between the hem of his crop top and the waistband of those tight jeans. “You wanted me to look. You needed me to react. You wanted to get under my skin, and congratulations, Pup. You succeeded.”
He lets out another low laugh, but it’s edged with desperation. “I didn’t come here for your approval, Callahan.”
“No,” I agree, my eyes dragging back up to his mouth. “You came for my attention. You dressed like afuck-youand walked straight into my line of sight.”
“What if I did?” he asks, breath hitching as I lean closer. “What if I wanted you to look? Doesn’t mean I want you to touch. Looking’s free. Touching’ll cost you.”
“And what’s the price, Pup?” I whisper.
Nate’s mouth is close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath and can smell the faint bite of smoke and mint on his tongue. “Everything you’re afraid to give up.”
It’s the first honest thing he’s said tonight, and I fucking despise it. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He runs his tongue over his top teeth. “I like that it makes you weirdly breathless.”
He’s right; I am breathless, and I hate it. “You always talk this much when someone’s about to ruin you?”
The brat looks at me incredulously. “You thinkyou’regoing to ruinme?”
I lean in close enough for my mouth to graze his ear. “Oh, Pup. You’ve been unraveling since I met you.”
“Fuck you,” he snaps, but he still doesn’t move or push me away.
“You want to be touched soft, and hated hard,” I murmur, letting my voice sink like poison. “You want someone who sees through all the bark and teeth. That’s why you keep coming back.”
He scoffs. “I come back because I’m forced to.”
“But you stay because youwantto.”
I feel his breath hitch and the tremble under his skin. The way his body leans unintentionally toward mine. I drag my fingers from his throat down the center of his chest, grazing the warm strip of skin between the crop top and his jeans. My knuckles skim over the top button at his fly to hover right above the waistband. He twitches, and I smile wider.
“What are you wearing underneath?” I whisper, my voice thick with threat and interest.
His breath stutters. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would.” I let the back of my fingers trace along the metal button again. “Tell me, Pup.”
“No.”
My hand slides back to his throat, and I tilt his face up until all that pretty defiance has nowhere to hide. “I said,” I murmur, my lips ghosting over his, “what are you wearing under this?”
He grits his teeth. “Nothing.”
Liar. And he knows I know. Because when my other hand pops open the buttons of his jeans and slides under the waistband, what I feel isn’t skin, denim, or anything I’ve ever touched on another man before.
It’s lace.
Fucking lace.
My breath catches for the wrong reason. Not because I’m turned on—though I am—but because of the anger that sparks at the thought of him dressing like this for someone else.
“You little whore,” I breathe, my voice dropping. “You wore lace?”
He doesn’t move or try to deny it, but that little smirk and his silence tells me everything.
