Creighton pushes off his chair and towers over me. My legs are still bent, my whole body shakes, and tears cover my cheeks. However, I don’t dare to wipe them in case that’ll get me in more trouble.
I’m still not sure how this works, but I know that despite the pain and the discomfort, I’m drawn to it in inexplicable ways.
His hand reaches to my face, colder than my heated cheek, bigger and…safe.
He strokes his thumb beneath my lids, gliding the tears over my skin as I sniffle silently.
Pure sadism shines in his ocean eyes, seeming to eradicate any noble feelings he could have. “I love the sight of your tears.”
My breath catches as a shudder rips through me. “That…sounds sick.”
“I am sick. You should’ve stayed away while you had the chance.”
He slides his thumb all over my face again, the darkness shifting, morphing, and simmering on the surface.
I watch it with keen interest.
Just like the other time, it seems that whenever he punishes me, something inside him claws to the surface.
Fighting.
Biting.
Hitting.
It’s like he’s…warring for control. But against whom? And for what?
As if validating my thoughts, he shoves his hand in his pocket and steps back.
He’s leaving.
Again.
I can’t help feeling the tinge of emptiness at the dysfunctionality of it all.
But I won’t have him throw me away like this. I wanted the way out he offered, but he didn’t let me take it.
The least he can do is treat me like I matter.
I let my legs fall and swing from the table. “Will I find an ointment for a sore pussy in my mailbox this time?”
He stops a few steps away from the door and spins around, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be a brat.”
“Don’t be a jerk. I’m not a sex doll that you use and discard.”
“No, you’re not. I haven’t fucked you yet.”
My neck and cheeks heat, but I carry on, “Either give me the respect I deserve or let me go.”
“I told you it’s too late to let you go.”
“The answer is simple then.”
He raises a brow.
“I mean it, Creighton. If you think I’m bluffing, try me. I’ll go fake date Brandon. Just make sure you don’t regret it afterward, because there’s a trope in romance novels that’s called fake dating and it always becomes the real thing.”
His brows dip and his eyes taper as his cold voice rings in the air. “There will be no dating Brandon, fake or not.”
“Then give me what I want.”
“And what do you want, little purple?”
I hop from the table and, dammit, I totally overestimated my abilities, because my pussy throbs like crazy.
Creighton must see the change on my face, too, because his darkened gaze slides to my now covered pussy before his eyes finally meet mine.
Waiting.
Intimidating.
I step toward him. “Take me on a date and I’ll tell you what I want.”
“I don’t do dates.”
My face must look monstrous with all the tears, but I still flip my hair. “In that case, I guess you’ll have to start.”
Then I brush past him with my head held high.
14
CREIGHTON
“Is this your idea of a date?” I run my gaze over the picnic-like setting on the roof of the shelter.
When Annika demanded a date yesterday, I was ready to ignore her.
But that’s the thing about this infuriating girl. She’s impossible to ignore.
Every time I pretend she’s not there, she barges in with her colorful, chatty, and absolutely bratty presence.
Today, she came to volunteer with a huge carryall bag slung over her shoulder. Now, I see what it was for.
A checkered purple sheet lies on the ground and on top of it rests countless dishes. Pasta, meatballs, three types of salad, fish and chips, and a basket of fruits.
Annika is on her knees pouring what looks like apple juice into a glittery cup with an even more glittery straw.
I try but fail not to focus on her position. I’m almost sure she doesn’t mean to be a cocktease, but that’s exactly what happens when she naturally gets into these submissive positions and looks downright elegant while doing it.
Heat rushes to below my belt, and my cock slowly but surely awakens. It thickens at the thought of stretching and tearing her tiny cunt from the inside out.
Too soon.
She’s not used to pain.
Fuck, she didn’t even know pain before I came along. I have to remind myself that I can’t break her…yet.
Her fashion today doesn’t help, though. She’s wearing a ruffled skirt that stops above her knees and an off-the-shoulder crop top that reveals her belly button. With the way I’m looking down at her, she appears so small that I could ruin her with a flogging.
No, mere biting would do.
Her translucent skin would become red, then purple—like her favorite fucking color.
“Unfortunately, I’m like the first daughter and have to be watched at all times, so this is the only type of date we can have until further notice.” She smiles up at me, the blue-gray of her eyes sparkling under the hint of sun. “Are you going to just stand there all day?”
With a sigh, I lower myself onto the edge of the blanket and grab some utensils. “Do you have to make everything so…purple?”
“Do you have to be grumpy about everything? Besides, purple is superior. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”
I stare at her, and usually, she’d break eye contact or try to talk her way out of the situation, but this time, she simply shakes her head as if I’m the one being unreasonable.
Then she pushes the fish and chips in my direction. “Look, I made your favorite. Totally had to beg Ces to teach me how to cook it over FaceTime, and it wasn’t really that hard. Also, people say I’m a horrible cook, and by people, I mean my family is included. Ava also says I should stick to salad, so I totally understand if you don’t want to eat it.”
Should’ve said that before she gave me that cursed lunch box. I opened the container and took a bite of food and basically swallowed it without chewing. I’m the number one non-picky eater on the planet. As long as it’s food, I’ll devour it, but Annika is a certified food terrorizer.
She should be banned from the kitchen.
I’m surprised my expression doesn’t change as the salty thing rolls down my throat. I take another bite before the first one is gone.
When I grab a bottle of water, I realize she’s watching me with big eyes and parted lips.
“How is it?”
“Not bad.” An overstatement. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever consumed and that’s saying something, considering Mum isn’t that great of a cook either.
But just like my mum, Annika made the effort for me. So that’s a positive, I think.
Her face falls and she toys with the straw in her cup. “Oh.”
Is it normal that I hate that type of expression on her face? It’s even more noticeable when it drastically changes from all bright and fucking glittery to complete dejection.
“It’s good.” I continue eating. “Just a little bit excessive on salt.”