Page 31 of Volatile

Hard.

As a fucking rock. I wouldn’t have believed it had it been anything but pressed against my own raging erection. I would have thought anything else had caused it, had Royal not thrown me off the second I felt it. His pained expression told me what he wouldn’t admit.

And now I was confused. I’d gone back and forth with hope so many times, and confirmation only confused me more. Like my brain didn’t want to accept that was the root of the issue.

He’d always been straight. Not a fucking inkling of more. He never looked at guys or did anything that would have made me believe he was a closeted bisexual. What did he see in me that he had seen in no other guy?

What did that mean?

I swished the drink in my mouth and studied him.

Was it the skirt? Surely a simple skirt couldn’t push him to such a reaction. Or could it? Is that why he’d been so angry the last few weeks?

The pieces clicked into place, and I grew more irate by the minute. This fucking cocksucker gave me hell because his own arousal made him uncomfortable?

It was the only logical conclusion. He’d put me through hell over being turned on?

My rage built on the confirmation, and I was determined to push every fucking button he had. If he wanted hell, he could have it.

“I got you.”

His brows pulled as he tried to work out what I meant.

I shoved off the bar, nearly bumping our chests. He stepped back, not letting me get close to him. I matched him step for step and backed him to the far end of the tiny bar, his back hitting the wall with a thud. He held up his hands like I was some queer trying to infect him, and maybe it should have made me mad, but it turned me on.

“I figured you out.” I slid a hand down over the fabric of my skirt, finding my hard-on and wrapping my fingers around it. I grinned at him, filthy and daring. “Is this what’s getting to you? The way I look in the skirt? Or that I have a cock under it?”

He looked torn between arousal and fury.

I fed off of it.

I wanted it all.

I wanted him to pick that fight he’d almost started. We were out of Sebastian’s hearing, and I wouldn’t stop until he did something about it.

I would push him to act.

Either hit me or kiss me. Let’s see what he was made of.

“It’s—” He seethed but stumbled over his words. The power of it was intoxicating. “Fuck you.”

“Is that all you can come up with?” I forced myself closer, nose to nose, waiting for him to shove me back. Waiting for him to do anything but make excuses. Waiting for the anger to make an appearance. I craved it. Anything to feel him. “Your stammering silence tells me the truth, even if your lips won’t.”

His lip curled, and he flipped from discomfort to rage. His fingers fisted in my shirt again, elbows coming up to force my hand away from my cock, collecting the fabric so tight the seams strained and tore. “What do you think my lips aren’t saying?” He didn’t deny it.

Shock left me speechless, and it took a minute for my brain to catch up and formulate a reply. “That I’m making you hard dressing like this.”

“Uncomfortable and annoyed isn’t hard.” There it was, and it pissed me off. How fucking dare he try to deny it!

“I fucking felt it—” Was this motherfucker really going to dismiss it?

The goddamn audacity.

“Do you think you’re the only person in the universe I could be hard for? A little self-centered of you, isn’t it?” Rage swirled in his gaze, and I couldn’t figure out if he was telling the truth or not, and it enraged me. I wanted it to be true. Maybe more than I’d realized.

I tried not to focus on the disappointment filling my chest, holding onto the anger. I wouldn’t let him fucking win or misdirect me. I fought his hold, getting my hand around my cock again. I stroked, knuckles rubbing against his thigh with each pass.

His chest heaved as we both flexed. Him trying to prevent me from reaching my cock with his much bigger arms between us while I fought to keep it right there. A single button popped and then another, hitting him in the stomach. He seethed, knuckles white with the strain.

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