Chapter 13 #2
Whipping around, I stare at him, lifting one hand to touch the mud dripping from my hair.
Mallory looks back at me, lips curled in a smug, satisfied smile.
Seething, I crouch down, retrieving yet another handful of muck.
Again, he doesn’t try to stop me as, careful not to lower my eyes, I stop right in front of him and slip one finger beneath the waistband of his running pants, pulling them away from his body.
At that moment, something in the air seems to shift. It’s both inside me and out, tightening and tugging against the space between us. The forest goes quiet, and I’m so aware of him, of the tension in his body and the look on his face which couldn’t be mistaken for anything less than want.
Before I drop the mud, anyway.
The spell is broken. Mallory curses, springing back, and—knowing I’m about to pay dearly for that one—I turn, sprinting off down the trail.
Unfortunately, despite his advanced, borderline geriatric age, my adversary has focused a lot more on his cardiovascular health than I have.
I squeal as a large, warm, muddy weight hits me from behind, an arm looping around my waist to seal my body against his, as we tumble onto the ground in an uncoordinated mess of limbs.
Apparently keen on avoiding the awkward questions that would arise from his crushing me to death, Mallory manages to turn us, so his back hits the dirt instead of mine.
Disoriented, I squirm against his hold and, with a well-aimed kick to his shin, manage to get free.
I roll onto the ground, but escape doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me, because seconds later, Satan’s hand has closed like a vise around my ankle.
Before I can even think about how to get free, he’s yanked me back toward him, and I find myself flat on my back as Mallory swings a leg over my torso.
The canopy of branches and leaves is obscured, as I find myself staring up at his muddy, seething expression.
“Let me go!” I snarl, thrashing.
With frightening ease, Mallory gathers my wrists in one of his massive hands, pinning them over my head. “Let’s see here.” He smirks, an unhinged glint in his eye as he reaches over to retrieve another handful of mud from the side of the trail.
I barely have time to squeeze my eyes shut before he’s dragging it over the side of my face, exactly as I did to him. “You’re such a freaking ass!” I screech, but press my lips together tightly as I realize how perilously close the mud is to the corner of my mouth.
“And you’re a brat,” Mallory counters, reaching over to give the other side of my face the same treatment.
It’s cold and gritty, and somehow slimy, too.
Nothing about this is even remotely like the mud masks I had at that spa in Barcelona, an experience I absolutely will not be repeating again with the image of the real thing seared into my memory until the end of time.
“Now, listen up,” he seethes, leaning in to look me directly in the eyes. “Like it or not, I’m in charge. The sooner you accept it, the less miserable this experience will be for both of us.” The weight on my chest increases as I try to buck against his hold, and the asshole growls in frustration.
My temper overrides my concern for getting mud in my mouth. “Screw you, you oversized, sadistic turd canoe!”
He lets out a bark of laughter. “Screw you right back, you spoiled, entitled little shit.”
“Poop-themed insults are my thing! Get your own!”
“Little shit is not a poop-themed insult!”
This pisses me off even more, and I’m only grateful there is no one to witness the way my legs flail, trying and failing to land a kick against his broad back. Finally giving up with a noise of frustration, I glower up at him, panting. “Get. Off. Me.”
Mallory leans in, not stopping until our muddy faces are inches apart, and I can smell the peppermint from his toothpaste. Time shudders to a stop as we stare at each other, and the sounds of the forest seem to fade away, leaving only our panting and the violent pounding of my own heart.
Despite being cold, dirty, and completely furious with the man looming over me, heat floods my core as his lips curve in a wicked smile. “I was advised you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, princess.”
So, I’m not the only one who can hold a grudge.
I glare at him, squirming half-heartedly, and as I do… Oh.
My head spins as I stare into those dark eyes, dizzy with the rush of feeling so many things at once.
Finally—finally—a flaw has appeared in the seemingly impenetrable armor of Damien Mallory, giving away that the controlled, smug asshole on top of me isn’t as perfect as he’d like everyone to believe.
Because, even with no less than three layers of clothing between us, there’s no mistaking what’s pressed against my stomach.
The urgency to get back to my feet is forgotten as I look into his eyes.
“Is that what you want? To catch me?” Winded as I am, the murmured words come out soft and breathy.
My voice sounds like it would if he were pressing me into a mattress instead of the cold ground, and I was preparing to beg for his long, hard cock, instead of relief from this battle of wills.
Mallory’s hand tightens on my wrist, and I see his throat working to swallow as his gaze drops briefly to my lips. “What?” he manages, his chest heaving.
Oh my god.
Feeling bolder than I ever have in my life, I arch my back, pressing myself harder against his erection as I respond coyly.
“Do you have me right where you want me, right now?” It sends a thrill through my entire body as I see his pupils dilate and feel his cock twitch, betraying the effect these words have on him.
The effect I know—I just know—he can’t stand.
I see it in his eyes when he realizes what he’s done.
Mallory recoils, pushing himself off me and back to his feet in a rush, dripping bits of mud and forest debris as he turns away. I stumble to my feet and stand there, watching as he gets himself together, gathering up all the armor he dropped until he’s fully guarded and ready to face me.
Even then, I see far more gaps in its gleaming facade than I did before.
Panting, cold, wet, and caked in mud from head to foot, we stare at one another from opposite sides of the trail.
“Let’s make one thing very clear,” he begins, every syllable quiet, dangerous, and laced with poorly concealed fury. “If you break into my home, or steal my truck, or pull a stunt like this again, you’re done.”
Wind whispers through the branches above our heads, a peaceful soundtrack to the battle underway down here.
He’s threatening to tell my father I’m a hopeless case, to strip me of the money that’s my only hope of a comfortable life, and I couldn’t care less. Possessed by the rush of understanding which swept over me a moment ago, my mud-caked face splits in a smile. “Can’t wait.”