Page 200 of Lessons in Cruelty

“But you won’t.” He grabs that same piece of hair, twisting it around his finger till it pulls at my scalp. “You’re too curious to see where this goes. How it feels.”

Fuck him for always being right.

I pull off my blouse with shaking hands.

“Jeans.”

I hesitate. Lick my lips. But I unbutton them anyway. Push them down and kick them off. And then I stand there in my tatty bra and period-stained underwear I’ve had since sophomore year of high school like I’m waiting to be inspected for lice.

That happened a lot down in Riverside. Dad nearly made me chop off all my hair once. If it hadn’t been for the lady down the street with a lice comb and the patience of a saint, I’d have rocked a pixie cut through most of elementary school.

An odd smile quirks at his mouth as he slowly circles me. He opens my bra with a flick of his finger, and plucks it down my arms before I can catch hold of it to stop him.

“Bastian!” I clap my hands over my tits, but he tugs my wrists down to my sides hard enough to leave a heat rash on my skin.

I bite my lip, fighting every nerve ending as his gaze rakes over my exposed skin. My nipples pebble—whether from his stare or the cool air, I don’t fucking know.

“Christ,” he breathes, a tiny chuckle in his voice. “You really are trailer trash, aren’t you? No wonder you’re still a virgin.”

He catches my slap before I can touch his face.

Yanks my wrist. Twists.

Then I’m pressed against him, my wrist digging into the small of my back, his hard cock grinding against my pubic bone.

“Don’t even attempt to lie,” he murmurs, his dark eyes searching mine like he’s hunting for any trace of shame he can find. I try to hide it, but the goddamn tears keep springing up, keep overflowing, keep racing down my face like they’ve got somewhere else to be.

“I could smell it on you the day you walked into my class. That need. That desperation. Years spent wishing for someone to touch you properly.”

Who the fuck is this guy?

I walked into this boutique with the male equivalent of a Fairy Godmother, but it’s like he’s morphed into a villain.

Was that all pretend?

I’m still struggling for words when his eyes dart down to the band-aid on my side. I flinch when he runs his fingers over it—not gently, but as if he wants to rub it away.

“What’s this?”

“Nothing.”

“And this?” His hand is on my throat again, thumb right beneath the tiny cut Kai sliced there with the tip of the knife.

“Cut myself shaving,” I say, voice strained by the unnatural angle of my neck.

“Hilarious.” But Bastian is not amused.

He reaches out and grabs the first dress on the railing. It’s a shimmering deep red. The softest, silkiest fabric I’ve ever touched.

“Put it on.”

I fumble it off the hanger, step awkwardly into it, and drag it up my body. His eyes are on me the entire time, and I’ve never felt as exposed, vulnerable, dirty, ugly…and fucking turned on.

When our eyes meet in the mirror and I catch sight of the awed hunger so blatant on his face, I nearly spin around and kiss him.

I might be the only one who took their clothes off, but we’ve both been stripped bare in this dressing room. Me, down to my cheap, stained underwear. Him, to the predator I always knew lurked under that chivalrous facade he wears out in the world.

It takes effort to look at myself, but the color of the gown draws my eyes away from Bastian, to my own reflection.