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“I really couldn’t give a fuck what other people do. I wanted to do this, so I did,” he says, his expression intense, but calm.
“I have money,” I insist.
“I know, we all have money, more than we’ll ever need.”
“So, I don’t need you to pay for my things.”
“I know that. But I’m still going to,” he says, reaching for me and pulling me to him. “The customary response to a gift is thank you.”
“Hawthorn.”
His sigh is loud. “For fuck’s sake, Princess, stop being a pain in the ass and just say thank you, then kiss me.”
Wary, I stare at him suspiciously, trying to understand his motives, what he thinks this gift is going to get him, and what game this is.
“Jesus,” he mutters, palming the back of my head and slamming his lips to mine.
Mom always taught me that every interaction with a boy had a purpose and that I should always ensure that I used every moment to my advantage. A shy look here, a soft touch there. She promised me I could make them all fall in love with me if I just learned their weak spots. So I know how to play with a guy. But in the past, everything has always been on my terms, and I never gave more than I needed to get what I wanted.
But none of the rules I’m used to living by apply to Hawthorn. The money is gone, he knows that, he helped me get out from beneath its burden. So what game is he playing, or am I the one who’s playing with him?
No. How can I be manipulating him when I absolutely have no idea what’s going on?
“Stop thinking,” he growls against my lips a second before he reclaims them, kissing me until I’m not capable of thinking about anything but him.
Allowing myself to cede control and melt into the kiss, I bask in the way his huge body makes me feel small and protected. I let myself enjoy the way it feels to be held tight, like he doesn’t want me to escape, and how when I’m in his arms, I feel like it’s possible to just be me. I don’t understand how, but Hawthorn gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, I can forge a better future for myself, one where I don’t have to be the villain in my own story anymore.
When he pulls back, I cling to him, not ready to let go just yet. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I feel his smile against my cheek when he presses a soft, barely there kiss on it. “You’re welcome.”
We stay wrapped up in each other for several long minutes, not kissing or talking, just breathing the same quiet air. “I should go,” I exhale sadly.
“Or you could stay,” he says, pulling away until I’m looking up into his handsome face.
“I don’t understand. We already had sex,” I say bluntly, then immediately regret it. I’m used to being the tease, the one leading every conversation and flirtation, but with Hawthorn, I feel like I sound like a naïve idiot.
“Jesus, Penelope, I love fucking you, but that isn’t the reason I brought you here or why I want you to stay with me,” he growls, gripping my chin between his finger and thumb and forcing me to look at him.
“I don’t understand,” I cry. He told me he likes me, he’s told me he wants me, and he told me I’m his, but that was about sex, wasn’t it?
A sadness fills his eyes, and I instantly prickle, I don’t want his pity.
“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”
I shake my head.
“Ever had a guy friend?”
I shake my head again.
“Ever had a friend?”
Scowling, I rip my chin from his grip and try to turn away, but he curls his arm around my waist and hauls me roughly back to him. Carrying me with my feet dangling just above the floor, he backs me into a wall, then cages me in, imprisoning me in place with his massive body pressed firmly against mine.
“Don’t fucking turn away from me when I’m talking to you. When we’re having a conversation, I want to see your eyes,” he snarls, his own eyes angry and daring me to look away.
“Okay,” I whisper. What he’s doing and how he’s acting should be frightening, but he’s not hurting me. If I really wanted to leave, I think he’d let me despite our size difference, because even though he’s huge and has me pinned to a wall, I feel utterly protected by him.
