Page 44 of Lawless Rivals
When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and deep. “Strip.”
I rest my hands on my hips. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says. “It’s time to get changed.”
My pulse kicks, and I hate myself for it even as I fold my arms tighter across my chest.
“No—”
“Keira,” he uses my name in a warning, and the sound of it makes my face flush. “This stops being a discussion if I have to repeat myself.”
I hold his gaze. “How does she feel about your female prisoner wearing her clothes?”
The corner of his mouth twitches a fraction. “Are you really ready for my way? Because I won’t be gentle when I rip that shirt off your back.”
I narrow my eyes at him, projecting as much grit into the glare as I can. “Touch me and I’ll stub that cigarette out on your face.”
“I’d like to see ya try.”
My chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, the taunt of his smirk daring me to cross the line.
Truth is, I could fight, kick and call him all the scathing names I can think of, but he’s a mountain of a man who’d overpower me in seconds.
“Fine.” I return to the table, ready to grab the bag and change in his bathroom.
When my hand reaches for it, he steps into me and sets his on top of the bag first.
“Let’s have a lesson in manners, shall we? I went to the hassle of borrowing clothes that would fit ya better than mine, and you’re acting like a spoiled Harrington brat.”
I glare up at him, my pulse slamming in my throat. “I’m sure the clothes are fine. It’s where they came from that’s the problem.”
“Why?” he asks. “What’s it to ya?”
My forehead creases. “It’s weird.”
“You being weird about it… That’s what’s weird.” His brows drift upward. “You’re happy to borrow my stuff but not a woman’s?”
“I’m not dressing up as your girlfriend, and I sure as hell don’t need lessons from a man like you,” I snap. “Especially not in manners.”
Rather than answer, he moves.
One second, I’m scowling, the next he’s spun me around and my lower back hits the kitchen counter, his body closing the space before I can react.
The solid press of his pelvis pins me in place without effort. My pulse surges hard and deceitfully while his gaze drops to the shirt I’m wearing, then cuts back to my face.
“I don’t agree,” he says. “And I don’t do girlfriends.”
His hand moves away just long enough to reach the knife block. He draws one free and brings it between us, the flat of the shiny as it reflects the shirt’s pattern.
I open my mouth to warn him off and lose the thought when the first button pings off.
“Saint…”
The knife slides lower, popping each button one by one while his focus lingers on the slow act, watching every breath, every flicker of reaction I can’t hide.
When he snips the final loop of thread, the fabric parts and falls away, uncovering my breasts and baring my skin to him.
My breath comes faster no matter how much I try to rein it in because he’s standing there, staring at my pointed nipples, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as if he’s holding himself back.
