Page 43 of Bad for Business
“Don’t do it,” I demand, my gaze pinned on her. She stands next to the door, her eyes wide as she looks back at me. I lean against the farthest wall from the door, making sure I’m as deep in her room as physically possible.
“Don’t do what?” she spits.
“Pretend that you hate me.” I sigh, wondering if I’m making any kind of sense. My demand is coming out more like a plea, and the realization makes me irrationally angry. Why does it have to be her, of all people, to make me feel this way?
She’s quiet for a moment, giving me no indication of what might be going through her head.
I try to keep my gaze in a safe spot. I try to look at those aquamarine eyes that have haunted my dreams for weeks. I really do try. But like a fucking moth to a flame, my gaze drops. I can’t resist it. I look at her tan thighs and where the hem of the nightgown cuts dangerously high, and I remember kissing that very skin on display. I remember the way her thighs shook when my lips kissed the soft skin at the apex of her legs. I remember the way she moaned my name.
And that’s the fucking problem.
I remember every single thing when it comes to her. And every moment I find myself hoping that the moments stuck with her the same way they’ve stuck with me, she makes it a point to let me know that she wants nothing more than to forget I even exist.
“I don’t hate you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
The words give me the slightest bit of hope. I know she doesn’t hate me. I just would’ve bet money that she would’ve lied to us both and said she did. Maybe it’s progress that she didn’t say that.
And there it is once again. Hope. Blooming in my chest despite my head knowing hope with her is a dangerous game.
“I don’t hate you,” she repeats. She pushes her shoulders back and gets that defiant look on her face I know all too well. My stomach drops because I know I’m not going to like whatever she’s about to say next. “I just really don’t like you,” she finishes.
I’ll give her credit. She laces conviction with every word. She enunciates every single syllable, making sure she drives the point home. Her body is still. The only movement is the rise and fall of her shallow breathing.
My head spins. The edges of my vision blur, and my ears ring. I don’t know what it is that takes over my body. It could be anger. It could be devastation. Maybe it’s frustration. Whatever it is, it consumes me.
“Guess you don’t have to like me to want to kiss me, then,” I toss out. My tone is probably a little harsh, but so is hers.
Camille gasps. “Ryker.”
I shrug. “Tell me you didn’t want to kiss me out there.”
I take a step closer to her. And then another. And another.
There’s still space between us, but I’m closing it more and more with every step I take toward her.
“I didn’t want to kiss you,” Camille responds. Her voice doesn’t have the same edge as it did just moments ago. In fact, the softness and hurriedness to her words almost made it seem like she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince me. Her eyes are as wide as saucers as she stares back at me.
“Lie to my face again,” I demand, coming to a stop in front of her. “Except this time, make it more convincing. You don’t even sound like you believe it.”
Her eyes flash with anger.
I smile.
It’s fun to rile her up. To give her a taste of how she makes me feel.
She shakes her head before letting out a soft little yelp when her shoulders collide with the bedroom wall. She’s backed up too far, leaving her nowhere to go.
“I didn’t want to kiss you,” she repeats, trying her hardest to make it sound believable. It doesn’t work. Her words are weak and futile. She can’t even look me in the eye when she says them. Instead, her focus is on my lips. “I don’t want to kiss you,” she adds, this time her voice barely above a whisper.
I can’t help but smirk. I know I should leave this room and leave her alone completely. It’d probably be better for both of us if I just left. I don’t know what I’m trying to prove right now, but I can’t stop.
“Try again.” I take another step closer to her, making it so we’re almost chest to chest.
“What makes you think I’d ever want to kiss you again?” she asks, lifting her chin and looking me square in the eye.
I don’t answer for a moment. Instead, I think back to just minutes ago when we were sitting by the pool. I know we were having a moment. I felt it, and I can’t imagine she didn’t feel it too. When I leaned in to kiss her, her lips had parted, and her breathing had picked up. She stared at my mouth and wetted her lips, all the while leaning in closer to me.
“For one,” I begin, feeling bold enough to reach out and press my thumb to her bottom lip, “you can’t stop staring at my mouth.”
