ARROGANT BASTARD Read online

  Only he does none of that.

  “You’re right, Waverly. I don’t have any control over you.”

  My jaw slackens. He’s screwing with me. Playing mind games. I’m not sure what his end goal is, but I’m not going to keep feeding into it, and I’m certainly not going to stick around to find out.

  “I’m leaving.” I pull away from him and push past, our shoulders grazing as I make a beeline for the door.

  But he grabs the crook of my elbow, stopping me in my tracks. He forces me against the wall and invades my space all over again. Without warning he leans down, his lips nearly brushing mine. I receive their warmth but not their pressure. We’re separated by no more than a single, dangerous millimeter.

  “If you want me, Waverly—and I kind of think you do,” he whispers, “—you can have me. The choice is yours. You get to decide.”

  A long, slow breath drags past my lips. I’d close my eyes, but I’m hypnotized by the intensity of his champagne stare.

  “But if you kiss me,” he continues, “I won’t be held responsible for what happens after that. I might be the best thing that ever happens to you. I might destroy you. I might make you feel all kinds of terrifying things. You might hate me when we’re done. You might fall in love with me. I’m not promising you a damn thing except you’ll be a better person when you come out the other side.”

  With that, he’s gone, leaving a gush of cool air where his body had been. My hands tremble. I’m swallowing breaths as if I’d been drowning. Minutes blur together until I gather my composure and peek out to the hallway.

  He’s gone.

  He meant what he said.

  The choice is mine.

  And I choose…

  CHAPTER 7

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I’m standing naked, taking a cold shower because it’s the only thing that can remedy the burden between my legs.

  I crossed the line with Waverly. I meant to provoke her. I meant to make her think. Instead I took it a step too far.

  That soft, fuckable, virgin mouth.

  Those big, clear blue eyes.

  Her long, sandy hair that cascades down those grip-able shoulders and grazes the top of her cleavage.

  Sigh.

  She’s a good girl.

  I need to leave her alone, because at the end of the day, she’s not my problem. In a few short months I’ll be out of here, and I won’t think about her twice.

  I need to let her grow up with her back-assward belief system. Let her wear her purity ring and sacred temple garments and be married off as the fifth or sixth wife to some fifty-year-old bastard that Mark will inevitably set her up with.

  I pound my fist into the acrylic of the shower, followed by my forehead.

  She’s not my fucking problem.

  But this whole world she lives in is nothing but abuse.

  Watching Bellamy and Waverly being raised to believe their worth is boiled down to sharing a husband with a group of other brainwashed women, birthing as many babies as their bodies can handle, and cooking and cleaning infuriates me.

  Especially when it’s tied into religion, as if God wants them to be second-fucking-class citizens.

  I slap a fistful of shampoo into my hair and lather. Hard. My fingers dig into my scalp.

  “You’re never going to be good enough for one of those girls,” my father would say after church whenever he caught me checking out the deacon’s daughters. “Don’t even try. They need real men are the ones who make their fathers proud. Not some promiscuous pencil-dick like you.”

  Religion and modern-day human sexuality are a dangerous mix. I told that once to my sex-ed teacher, which prompted a phone call to my father, which resulted in a belt beating that night before dinner.

  I jerk the water to warm, unable to tolerate the cold a moment longer, and think of Waverly again. My cock hardens in an instant and I grip it with my left hand, rubbing and tugging as water beads down my body. When I’m fully erect, my balls tighten and swell.

  I shut my eyes tight as I imagine Waverly’s pink tongue tasting the tip of my dick before her mouth takes the rest. I imagine looking down, my eyes getting lost in hers as she moans with each lick and stroke. My free hand clenches as I envision a handful of her silky hair threading through my fingers.

  Everything becomes clear as day for a second.

  Waverly needs me.

  She needs me and she doesn’t even know it.

  I’m the only one who can save her. I’m the only one who can teach her that sins of the flesh are perfectly normal—dangerous to ignore, even. Something tells me she’s saving herself for some polygamous husband who sees her as nothing but a vessel in which to plant his delusional seed.

  My moment of clarity comes to a grinding halt when my mind goes blank, my body goes numb, and I cum all over the wall of the acrylic shower I share with my two “sisters.”

  I twist the water off and wrap a towel around my waist before heading down the hall to my room. I don’t feel guilty. I feel clearheaded. I know what I need to do.

  I’m walking with purpose now.

  I strut down the hall like a goddamned peacock, gazing into Waverly’s room as I pass by. She’s not in there. She’s probably hiding from me. Shit. I’ve probably traumatized her.

  Waverly makes me want sex like Beyoncé makes me want to put a ring on it.

  I remind myself not everyone lost their virginity at fourteen or screwed their stepmother multiple times a week since the day they got their driver’s license. Some might say I’m oversexed. I say I’m liberated. My cock, my sexuality, is the only part of me I’ve ever been able to control.

  But I’m not in it to fuck her. Unless she wants it. I’m not a predator. I’m a beacon of change. A catalyst. I’m here to bring about a longitudinal shift that will open her eyes in ways she’s only ever dreamed of.

  If she chooses to accept it.

  I twist the handle to my room, dropping my towel at the same time.

  Only I’m not alone.

  Found her.

  CHAPTER 8

  So that’s what a penis looks like in real life.

  “What are you doing in here?” He scrambles for the towel he’s just dropped, covering up as fast as he can. I’m shocked. I fully expect him to flaunt it in my face. Wag it around a little. Make a show of it.

  I’m not sure if it’s big or small. I’ve nothing to compare it to. I only look at it for half a second because it’s kind of funny-looking, this situation is weird, and I’m trying my hardest to act like none of this fazes me.

  “Embarrassed?” I tease.

  How does he like his space invaded?

  “You have virgin eyes, Waverly,” he mocks back. A system of black, tribal tattoos cover his right shoulder, snaking down his biceps, which flex as he grips his towel with his fist. “I’m being a gentleman.”

  “First time for everything, I suppose.”

  “Why are you in my room?” He shuts the door behind him and keeps a careful distance from me. He’s staring at me like I’m a stranger. Like he doesn’t recognize me.

  Good.

  I’m going to beat him at his own game, only he doesn’t know it yet. The second he walked out of the laundry room earlier, I decided then and there that there was only one way to beat him at his mind games. He wants to teach me a lesson about choices and control? I’ll show him I’m fully in control. He thinks he has me pegged? He’ll have to guess again.

  I’ll teach him to take me at face value.

  I was raised to be a good and faithful, virtuous and upright. I have patience a mile long and a soft spot a mile wide.

  But there’s a part of me, deep inside where no one can see, that can outfox the most cunning of foxes and outsmart the smartest of smartasses. There’s rebellion in my marrow. We all have it. Most of us, if we’ve any wits about us, keep it hidden from the rest of the world. We ignore the way it calls our name when no one’s around, and then every so often, it asks us to dance when
it’s sure no one’s watching.

  Jensen Mackey has messed with the wrong Miller. From here on out, I’m dancing with rebellion if only to teach him a lesson.

  “I thought about what you said.” I cross my legs and sit up straight, batting my lashes. I drag my hand across his comforter before scooting back.

  “That quick? Don’t need a night to sleep on it?” He’s testing me, but I think he’s scared. I’m about to call his bluff.

  My throat constricts. My face heats. I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. I unbutton my cardigan one pearl button at a time. I may as well be undressing in slow motion, but it’s absolutely intentional. Jensen stands by his dresser, his golden eyes wide as saucers and nothing coming from his rarely silent lips. The room spins like the bed is some sort of merry-go-round, but I don’t stop.

  Two buttons…

  Three buttons…

  Four…

  My cleavage peeks out from my white camisole, drawing his eyes to my milky flesh like bees to honey.

  “I know you want to touch them,” I say, having absolutely no intention of letting him come anywhere near them.

  This is all a bit of an experiment that will hopefully turn into a deterrent. The constant provocation since the day we met needs to stop. It ends now. Here. With me calling his bluff.

  “Waverly.” My name is a low rumble in his throat. He swallows, daring my eyes to travel down to where his fist still clenches his towel around his waist. There’s clearly a pitched tent thing going on. It’s much bigger than it was before and much bigger than I expected a penis to be.

  Do they get that big?

  I smile and hope he can’t see me gradually losing my cool. I summon the strength of the Harlequin heroine resting on the pages between my mattress and box spring and slap a smoldering expression on my face.

  What’s happening right now is a highly strategic game, not unlike chess.

  Your move, Jensen.

  His lips form a straight line. His eyes search mine. “You sure this is what you want?”

  I could slap him. He’s should be taking the bait, not calling my bluff. Where’s the lusty gaze he threw my way earlier? Where are his needy hands? His greedy intrusion? What happened to Jensen from the laundry room?

  “No, I’m just undressing in front of you for no reason.” I roll my eyes.

  “I’d hardly call it undressing. You wear more layers than an Eskimo, and you haven’t even taken your sweater off yet.” He leans against his dresser like we’ve got all the time in the world.

  News flash: our entire family is downstairs and it’s only a matter of time before they notice we’re the only two missing.

  I swallow the anger swelling in my chest and let his words bounce right off me. I’m not losing this game. I’m playing to win.

  “You clearly didn’t understand a word of what I said to you earlier.” He still hasn’t moved from his perch by the dresser.

  My face pinches. Once again, Jensen has found a way to burrow himself right beneath my skin. I resist the urge to scratch.

  “What didn’t I understand?” I brush my hair over my shoulder.

  “You’re doing all this…” His eyes fall to my cleavage and then lift up to my gaze. “Because you think it’s what I want. Because I planted the seed. Because I told you I thought about you. You’re doing it all for me. The control is still mine, Waverly. You’re a smart girl. How can you not understand that?”

  No, no. This isn’t going the way I planned.

  He ambles across the room to the side of the bed. The grip on his towel loosens, threatening to let go altogether any second now. My heart pounds hard in my ears.

  Think fast.

  “Nice try.” His full mouth turns into a half-smirk. I want to slap it off his face. “But I think you should go. I bet they’re looking for you downstairs.”

  No.

  Just… no.

  He doesn’t get to do this.

  He doesn’t get to knock down everything I’ve built up in one fell swoop.

  “I want you to touch me.” The words make my lips feel wavy and foreign, like they belong to someone else. I’ve never spoken that way before, not even in my fantasies. Those are dirty words, and they taste wrong and delicious coming from my clean lips.

  I tug away at the top of my sweater and pop my chest out a little more. The man must have more self-control than God. He’s still not taking the bait. “I want it, Jensen. You told me the choice was mine. I’m not doing this for you.”

  Why won’t you try to touch me?

  He licks his lips, but his body is still. Frozen. He’s reading me like an open book, the upper hand slipping from my tight little grasp straight into his second by second.

  “Take off your top,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You want me so bad, show me. I want you naked and sprawled across my bed. Give yourself to me. You know, if that’s what you want to do.”

  I could smack him.

  He leans into my space, his energy saturating mine. I’m trying to calculate my next move, but I can’t think straight when his warm soapy scent is infiltrating the air I breathe and his hardness is making itself known from behind his thin towel.

  My thoughts don’t make sense and my body isn’t making things any easier. There’s a slick heat between my thighs I wasn’t anticipating, an uninvited arousal.

  Knock, knock.

  “Go,” he whispers. He points to the far side of his bed, motioning for me to hide behind it.

  “Waverly in here?” It’s my dad.

  This is bad.

  Very, very bad.

  “Nope. Just got out of the shower. Haven’t seen her.” Jensen is cool as a cucumber, like he’s covered this sort of thing up a thousand times before.

  I capture a lungful of air; afraid if I so much as exhale my father will hear it. I’ve seen him come unglued before, and it isn’t pretty. There are two distinct sides to Mark Miller: his everyday side and the side that emerges when you cross him. Jensen standing half-naked in front of his virgin daughter would definitely fall into the latter category.

  It’s silent. I picture my father scanning the perimeter, looking for a single out of place item or a foot sticking out from under the bed. He never misses a thing.

  My heart pounds hard in my ears. We’re seconds away from a catastrophic event.

  Please, please, please…

  “Hm. If you see her around, tell her I’m looking for her.” I pick up a slight suspicion in my father’s voice.

  My lungs plead for oxygen, yet I’m still afraid to breathe. We’re almost in the clear.

  “Will do.” Jensen’s ability to remain calm around my father is nothing short of impressive.

  The door clicks shut two seconds later. I wait for the ping of the lock to fill the quiet room, then I remember his door has no lock.

  “You can come out now,” Jensen whispers.

  I rise gently, fearful that my father will come bursting back through the door if he hears so much as an extra floorboard creak coming from Jensen’s room.

  That was close.

  My cardigan is disheveled, my face flushed. Jensen’s eyes travel from my chest to my mouth before settling on my eyes.

  “Come on,” he says. “No more playing around.”

  I push past him, invading his space the way he invades mine. “I wasn’t playing. I was offering myself to you on a silver platter. I chose you, Jensen. And now I choose to leave.”

  He grips my wrist but not too tight. Just enough to let me know the balance of power is shifting in his favor once more.

  “Coming in here and teasing me with that church mouse striptease of yours isn’t offering yourself to me on a silver platter,” he whispers into my ear. “Come back with a little more dignity next time. I don’t want an AUB wife. I want a girl in charge of her own sexuality.”

  I jerk my wrist from his grip. “Oh, I’m in charge, Jensen.”

&
nbsp; “Yeah, for some reason, I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t need to prove myself to you.” My arms lock tight across my chest.

  “Yeah, you do.” He leans into my ear once again. “You want me to take you seriously? Fine. Tonight, when you go to sleep, I want you to finger yourself as you think about me. I want you to come all over those delicate fingers of yours as you think about my cock inside you.”

  My body quivers against my wishes, betraying me like a willful criminal. The warmth between my thighs spreads into a euphoric high I’ve never experienced before. Even the thought of being bad feels good.

  “That is,” he adds, “if you want to. Your choice. Obviously.”

  “I don’t need to think about you to get off.”

  “Sure. Just like I don’t need to think about you, but I do it anyway. I control what dirty thoughts lurk in the corners of my warped little mind.”

  “How many times?”

  “Twice.” He smirks. “How many times have you…? Wait. Have you ever pleasured yourself, Waverly?”

  “Of course I have,” I lie. I’ve touched myself once. But brought myself to the brink of an orgasm? Never. I don’t know how. I’ve slipped a finger down there once after reading select pages from my romance novels. It was warm and wet and highly sensitive. It felt good until the guilt set in, and I quickly retrieved my hand and vowed never to do it again.

  Jensen rubs the space above his temple, releasing a harsh groan.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “We just took five giant fucking steps backwards.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Make yourself come tonight,” he says. “That’s your assignment. Bring yourself to orgasm.”

  “You’re telling me what to do,” I scoff. “What happened to having choices? If I touch myself, won’t that be because you told me to touch myself?”