“Let go of me,” I demand.
“What?” I narrow my gaze on that sinful-as-fuck face. “You release me right now or else—”
“Or else?” He peels back his lips and his teeth gleam against the tan of his sculpted features. At my silence, he continues, “You were saying—”
“That this is a misunderstanding.” I huff. “I am not interested in you.”
“Neither am I in you.” He widens his stance.
“Doesn’t seem that way from where I am, buster.”
“How much control on your anger can you muster?” He tilts his head.
“Just because you think—mistakenly—that you’re superior?” I flip my hair over my shoulder.
“I am going to break through your tightly controlled exterior.”
“Wait.” I gape, “Did you rhyme your words to mine?”
“So did you.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” He grins and my stupid heart stutters. It bloody stutters.
He peers down into my face, his blue eyes glittering. “So much sass,” he growls. “I wonder how it would be to peel back the mask you wear to the world, to unveil the passion that lurks under the surface, to show you how it could be if the right man were to touch you in your secret places, the ones you think you have hidden away,” his voice lowers to a hush, “but which I can see, feel, touch, suck…”
My core clenches. I swear my panties self-combust.
“I don’t care for self-obsessed, insufferable, prats,” I declare. “You’ve got the wrong woman.”
He lowers his head until our eyelashes tangle. “I don’t think so, baby.”
“You’re no Johnny,” I stammer.
“Huh.” His forehead wrinkles, “Dirty Dancing?”
“Oh,” I blink, “you…you placed the reference?”