One #2
He grabs my wrist, hard enough that I feel the bones grind, making me cry out in surprise and pain. His other hand tries for my clutch, but I’m too fast, pulling it out of his reach. He knocks my champagne glass, and it falls to the floor, smashing on the marble.
No one seems to care. A few heads turn at the sound, pause long enough to see who I’m with, then their eyes slide away again.
It’s a goddamn charity gala. Rich people ostensibly here to do good things, yet none of them come to my aid? A public presence was my defense for just this eventuality, and no one cares?
Even Van Wyk hasn’t intervened, the bastard, and he’s heard everything. Instead, he’s watching me like a curious form of entertainment, as if waiting to see how I’ll respond.
I’m on my own.
I glare at Serranto. “Get. Your hand. Off. Me.”
“Give me that clutch,” Serranto hisses.
“Do you want to add an assault charge with a room full of witnesses?” I tug my wrist, twisting against his thumb, and the move breaks his grip. My wrist is red where he held me, but that’s not why my eyes are stinging.
It’s his audacity. Van Wyk’s utter dispassion. My outrage.
I step back quickly, glaring at him, at Van Wyk too for standing there and doing nothing. “You’re both assholes,” I spit, riding my anger, and both these men are equally to blame. “Impotent bastards picking on—”
“Excuse me?” Van Wyk cuts through sharply. His lips are pressed thin, his eyes have narrowed. There’s real fire in their depths, but I don’t care.
Serranto laughs cruelly, like I’ve just made my last mistake.
“You heard me,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’re both the same. Men like you, thinking you can just do what you want without consequence. Well, let me tell you—”
Van Wyk steps forward. He’s so damn fast I barely have a chance to register him closing the gap, before his hand finds my arm. His grip is solid, fingers biting into my flesh. “What did you call me?” His voice has dropped an octave, dangerously quiet.
I swallow. “I called you an asshole.” And I’m regretting it now.
“She called you a bastard,” Serranto adds with relish. “And impotent.”
God, I hate that guy.
“Come with me,” Van Wyk growls.
He doesn’t give me a chance to refuse but shoves me forward, keeping me just in front of him as he marches us through the gallery, away from the main doors. His grip is unshakable, and I know I’ll have bruises on my arm tomorrow. But I’m more worried about what’s going to happen right now.
We’re leaving Serranto behind; that’s the only positive.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I bite out, trying to pull my arm free with no effect. “Let go of me. I’m going home.”
Van Wyk doesn’t reply. We pass a couple, then another. They glance at Van Wyk, then look away. They don’t even make eye contact with me.
Who the hell is this guy that no one dares intervene?
Shit. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe Serranto wasn’t the dangerous one after all.
“Listen,” I try, “I’m sorry that—”
“Be quiet.”
“No, I don’t think I will be,” I hiss, my arm hurting and my fear and anger vying for attention. “If you don’t let go of me, right-fucking-now, I’m going to scream for security.”
“Go ahead,” he replies. “I am security.”
What?
I stare at him. It has to be a bluff. His tuxedo is as slick and smart as the best in the room, and the watch on his wrist costs more than my rent.
“I don’t believe you,” I say as he manhandles me past the bar set against the back wall.
“Then fuck around and find out.”
Fine, whatever. I’ll brace through whatever bullshit lecture he’s dragged me out here for, then I’m gone, Serranto’s hairs safely in my clutch.
Except we’re running out of gallery, and people.
He seems to be steering us toward a hallway marked for the restrooms. Maybe there’s a security office down there, and he is who he says he is.
Or maybe not.
“You can’t do this.”
“You’re a gatecrasher. I very much can.”
“So what?” I force a laugh, and it sounds high and tight in my own ears. “A slap on the wrist, a misdemeanor at worst.”
“Not when our lawyers hit you with a corporate espionage suit.”
I stare at him. “What?” He can’t be serious.
“Private event, and you’re not on the list. We take such things very seriously.”
“You can’t do—”
“I told you to be quiet.”
I fall silent, real fear gripping me now, my anger fading fast. I’ve done what I set out to do. I just want to leave this room full of people who don’t give a damn, but he’s taking me farther away from the exit.
We pass the men’s room, and I’m relieved that we haven’t stopped, or worse, turned in.
Where the hell is he taking me? The last thing I want is to be alone with him.
Maybe if he’d asked nicely, at one point this evening I’d have considered it, given the body under that tux and those intense steel-grey eyes. But that ship has sailed.
The ladies’ room is coming up on the other side of the hallway, but he doesn’t veer for that, either. Ahead, there’s a door outside, a red exit sign dimly lit.
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t reply, merely pushes the bar to open the door.
It’s a roof terrace, halfway up this skyscraper, the remaining floors looming over us.
We’re on the fifteenth floor, the view impressive if I were in the mood to consider it.
A few dim fairy lights sit on a handful of wooden tables, with cushioned loungers scattered about.
It’s mild for October. This could be romantic if I weren’t being strong-armed.
The thought almost makes me laugh, it’s so ludicrous. But it dies in my throat when I see we’re not alone. There’s a man out here.
He turns as we walk out, sees Van Wyk, and straightens.
“Give me your jacket,” Van Wyk snaps, “then go back inside and ensure we’re not disturbed.”
The man doesn’t hesitate. He shrugs out of his tux jacket, leaving him in a dress shirt, hands it to Van Wyk and walks through the door we just exited from. He doesn’t even glance at me.
Does everyone obey him?
I’m alone on a roof terrace with a man who’s just threatened to sue me into oblivion, and told another to ensure we’re not disturbed. A tremble runs through me.
Van Wyk’s holding the jacket on the end of two fingers.
“I’m not wearing that,” I say. I didn’t shiver because I’m cold.
“I didn’t ask you to.” He drapes it over a nearby table, then pulls me closer to him.
My bicep hurts, but he clearly doesn’t care.
I’m very conscious of the proximity of his body.
His cologne is a subtle fresh citrus and a distraction I don’t need.
His steel-grey eyes bore into mine, and I swallow, my mouth dry.
“Good tables, these,” Van Wyk murmurs. “Very sturdy.”
I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean. “It’s a lovely venue,” I agree cautiously.
“Lovely, yes,” he echoes, and moistens his lips.
That act shouldn’t have the impact it has on me, but I can’t look away. My pulse jumps to my throat, hammering against the skin. Air gets stuck in my chest. Is he about to kiss me?
What will I do if he does? Let him, then make my exit as soon as I can?
Is this why we’re out here? He wanted me alone?
I’m only conscious of his presence, ever so close to me, the hard lines of his body, the strength of his grip. The way he’s pulled me from the safety of other people’s company—not that they ever seemed to care—then threatened me with his ridiculous claim of a corporate espionage suit.
How dare he?
Anger mingles with confusion, and beneath it all, the inconvenient truth of how he affects me. But I want a nice man, not a bastard, and there’s no doubt which one he is.
Van Wyk walks me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. He releases my arm, but only to grip my wrists, shoving them straight up over my head, pinning them to the rough concrete. My clutch slips from my grasp, dropping to the ground.
I try to wrench free, but he simply tightens his hold without even straining. His eyes are inches from mine, watching me like he’s curious what I’ll do.
“This isn’t a security office.” There’s a quiver in my voice I can’t help, and I mask it with a glare. I’ve never felt so vulnerable, but I still try for the appearance of strength. “If you want a date, give me your number and I’ll call you in the morning.” As if.
He doesn’t release me or even reply. Instead, he presses closer, holding me helpless. Glancing down, his chest is almost brushing mine. I bite at my lip.
“What did you call me in there?” he asks, voice low, his grip tightening on my wrists.
I swallow hard. “I’m really sorry if I—”
“What did you call me?”
“An… an asshole.”
“And?”
Shit.
“And… a bastard. It wasn’t you, it was—”
“And?”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“And… uh…” I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can barely bring myself to say the word again, and it comes out as little more than a whisper. “…impotent.”
“I’m going to give you a choice,” he says, still pinning my wrists.
But now he’s only using one hand, and the other comes up beneath my chin, forcing me to look at him.
“You can either say sorry on your knees with your mouth, or you can refuse. Then I’ll bend you over one of these tables, and spank your ass. ”
My heart stops. My breath catches. Outrage and anger flare. Then my pulse returns, thudding hard in my ears.
“Where the hell do you—” I break off with a shake of my head. “No. Hell no. You let me go right now, or—”
The hand beneath my chin grips my throat, pushing me against the wall, squeezing enough to cut me off.
“You didn’t choose,” he says quietly. “So we’ll go with both options.”