Chapter 21 SONYA
SONYA
I’m proving a point. To myself and to him, and giving a massive middle finger to that nonsense dream I had, because the reality of Adrian Hughes touching me means nothing to me. I’m unmoved. Unbothered to the point of almost yawning. On the verge of rolling my eyes, because I’m so bored.
Except my lungs aren’t working. I’m not breathing as Hughes changes his pressure. Going from massaging my legs to teasing them with his fingertips.
The lightest touch made by hands almost twice the size of mine. Fine hairs on my arms lift, the back of my neck tingles, and I have goosebumps everywhere.
How did we get here? How did this happen? Minutes ago, I was searching for the quickest exit to throw myself out of. And now?
I’m arching forward angrily. Because this is outrage, right? I hate how Hughes’ darkening, half-lidded eyes dare me to feel nothing as he skims his hands up and down my thighs.
I force myself to yawn, and when he smirks, I scratch down the front of his chest, not really digging my nails in but pressing enough so he feels the threat.
He stutters out a laugh, his lashes lowering. “Do it again, darling.”
Like an idyllic fallen angel, he has strands of his blond hair that almost glow against his dark hardwood floors. He’s taunting me. That chiseled jaw has lifted with arrogance. Though, he might also be blushing, I think.
I take my palms off his warm skin, trying to take back the fact that I touched him back. But it doesn’t work that way.
My fingers tingle as if they want more. Way more. I blink at him, my head spinning at how much raw strength strains underneath me. When he shifts just a little, the muscles in his chest and arms ripple in a way that makes my throat dry.
In a flash, he could flip me over. Rearrange me. Position me to his liking. That’s what Dream Hughes did. I know this Hughes is capable of doing the same, but instead he’s watching me with those careful blue eyes.
“Still working on separating us?” His tone is so smug. ”Or should I take over like you need me to?”
Take over? Flames stoke deep in my belly. And this pulsating starts in my core. I refuse to imagine what he’s implying.
“I don’t ever need you,” I declare, trying to focus on the job. It’s the lowest part of my sweater caught on a button sewn on one of the inner lapels of his slutty robe, which doesn’t require any kind of fastenings there, so it doesn’t make any fucking sense.
I put all my attention into detaching us.
…and that’s a lie.
It’s two percent of my attention, because the rest remains stolen by Hughes. He needs to stop stroking tiny circles against my hips, his thumbs seeking out…
Tight muscles.
Like most ballerinas, my hips take the brunt of the hard work I put my body through.
“Shit, you’re tight,” he mumbles.
I blink. And throttle back a moan. His hands have found a particularly tense spot. “S-Stop it.”
“Are you sure?” He smiles, breathing hard and wearing a determined expression. “You feel like you want me to loosen you up.”
“Don’t you ever get sick of it? Of being—this person,” I bite out, because giving him attitude is the least I have to do when my head has dropped forward.
His hands are…
I don’t want to say the word.
They can’t be magic.
He kneads deeper, rounding my entire hips, up my rib cage and dipping down the lower length of my spine, teasing the upper curve of my ass.
“Give me permission for more.” His voice is rougher and more urgent now. ”Let me show you what I can really do with my hands, Sonya. Say yes, darling.”
My eyes open. At some point, they’d closed. My heart beats in my ears. Frantic.
He’s watching me, begging me with his eyes. So vividly blue. I see him swallow and his lips press together before he asks, “Are you ever going to?”
“W-What?”
“How do I make you not hate me?”
“I don’t hate you,” I reply automatically, without even thinking about it.
“But I don’t mean anything to you, do I?” he mutters as if that was the worst thing anyone has ever told him.
I don’t understand. “Why do you care?”
“Because I definitely don’t hate you.”
I still don’t quite get it, but his words are enough to have me push back, suddenly feeling like I’m more naked than him. Alarm is stirring inside me as I lose balance and scoot even further back. His thigh becomes firmly lodged between my legs.
We both freeze.
I look down. “It’s not—that’s not—I’m not—”
“Wet enough to soak through your leggings?”
Triumph—wait, no, satisfaction—no, that’s not right either. It’s wonder that washes over his dazed face.
Instead of answering him, I tear myself away and stand up. A button clatters to the ground.
“This whole time?” Adrian says, speaking softer than I’ve ever heard.
“Stop talking. You have to stop talking. We’re never speaking about this again.” My tone sharpens, but it isn’t exactly steady. “Say you won’t. You won’t mention that I was…”
Wet.
The word hangs in the air between us.
His lips part as if he wants to argue, but then his gaze shifts. Maybe to how my shoulders have hunched.
“I won’t, I promise. You can trust me.”
He says it quietly. Without any inflection. As if it’s something I can count on.
Regardless, I’m running past him.