Page 52 of Spearcrest Prince

“You wanted me to hit you. Sadomasochist.”

“And you liked hitting me.” I smirk, plonking my backpack down on the desk, and sitting down. “I think you might be the sadomasochist, trésor.”

“I don’t like pain,” she says levelly. “I’m a normal person. I like feeling good.”

“If you did”—I smirk—“you wouldn’t have run away from my bedroom that night.”

She glares at me, colour rising to her cheeks. “I didn’t run away.”

“Sure you did,” I say sweetly. “You still need to give me back my jumper, by the way.”

“And you’ve still got my hoodie,” she retorts.

“Your shorts, too,” I add. “You’re not getting either back.”

“Then you’re not getting your jumper back either,” she says with a shrug. “I’m going to wear it to keep me warm while I paint.”

“Give me my jumper back and paint naked.” I smirk. “I’ll keep you warm instead.”

“Only if you do so by setting yourself on fire.”

Her words are harsh, but she’s not angry. My chair is close enough to hers that our shoulders are almost brushing. She could pull away if she wanted, put distance between us, but she doesn’t.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t dare or because she doesn’t want me to think I intimidate her. Being with Anaïs is like playing a fucked-up game of chicken. We’re both daring each other to be the first one to pull away, but we’re also daring each other to get closer.

“If I set myself on fire,” I say, leaning into her, “then who would lick your cute pussy and make you come the way I did?”

“Shut up!” She pushes me away, staring around frantically. “Lower your voice! You have such a dirty mouth.”

I let her push me away, my grin widening. “You didn’t mind my dirty mouth last time.”

“I’m not here to talk about it,” she hisses. Then she narrows her eyes and leans forward, lowering her voice to an angry whisper. “You’re not about to get laid in the library, so don’t even think about it.”

It’s not what I had in mind—I was genuinely just trying to wind her up. But now she’s mentioned it, I doubt I’ll be able to think of anything else for the rest of the evening.

“You’re far too loud for the library, though I suppose I’d enjoy the challenge.” I pull my laptop out of my bag and set it next to hers. I throw her a sidelong glance. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you? Quickie in the Ancient Philosophy section?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure.”

I give a tragic sigh. “Shame. I’ve always fantasised about sneaky library sex.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding someone else to tempt.”

I turn back to her, startled. She’s resumed typing on her laptop, her expression a blank mask. Was she being sarcastic or sincere—or both?

“You want me to sleep with other girls?”

“I don’t really care what you do.”

“ButifI slept with other girls,” I insist, “you wouldn’t care?”

She frowns and looks up. She seems surprised by my serious tone. “No. Why should I?”

“Because we’re engaged?”

“It’s not a real engagement, though, is it?” Her tone is bone-chillingly calm, her body language unbothered. “You might be my fiancé, but you’re not myboyfriend.”

I stare at her for a second. That delicate face, those pretty eyes. The smooth façade of her, unruffled by emotions. That baggy hoodie and the body I know is underneath it. I understand the logic of what she’s saying.

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