Zeth sits back on his heels, still only wearing his boxers, tattoos shifting as his muscles flex seemingly without any conscious effort on his part. He’s built like a statue of a man, not the real thing. Some kind of portrayal of what the masculine physique would look like if it were rendered to perfection. I hate him for looking so good right now when I know I look like shit. And I’m fucking crying. He scrubs his hand across his jaw, scowling. He’d looked so intent on coming for me to do God knows what a second ago but now he seems a little torn.
“Don’t do that,” he tells me in a flat voice.
“Do what? Be mad at you? Of course I’m—”
“Cry,” he interrupts. “Don’t cry. That’s a shitty, underhanded trick.”
“Trick?” I can’t believe it. I can’t believe him. I’ve been held up at gunpoint, threatened, driven across three states, shot at and threatened some more, and he thinks I’m crying to make him feel bad. Asshole! I throw myself backward on the bed, pulling a pillow over my face. I scream into it, not even bothering to hold back. Even with the pillow it must sound like I’m being murdered. A large, powerful hand closes around my right ankle and then I’m being dragged through the sheets. The pillow is whipped out of my hands. I pause for a moment, glare at him defiantly, and then carry on screaming. He drops down on top of me, firmly planting a cupped hand over my mouth. He shoves his face into mine, serious and still glaring.
“Shut up,” he hisses. “For the love of all that’s holy, please shut the hell up, Sloane. You’re gonna split my head apart.”
I don’t stop, so he takes further action and digs his knuckles firmly into my ribs. “Ow! Motherfucker!” I slap him so hard the jarring impact rings like a bell up my arm. Zeth’s head kicks to the side. When he turns it back to me, I know I’ve gone and done it again. He’s so mad sparks practically fly from his dark eyes.
“I only trade in those,” he growls. “And with the hangover I have right now, that counts for two.”
Shit. I do my best to wriggle out from underneath him, but I have more chance of shrugging off gravity and floating into outer space. He looks like he’s ready to kill me.
“Zeth.” I try a reasoning voice. Like he’s a reasonable person and might respond like one. He clenches his jaw, the smooth line of his chin turning to steel as he arches up over me and grabs both my hands.
“You should know better by now, Sloane. You’re an angry girl, yeah, but I’m an angry boy, too. And if you plan on doling out punishment, you’d better be prepared to receive some in return.”
The first sparks of real panic begin to light inside me. I buck against him, still trying to get free. A curious smile emerges through the stern expression on Zeth’s face. He’s not bothered by my frantic struggles to escape. If anything it’s making the whole thing more pleasurable for him. From the growing hardness pressing against the inside of my thigh, that much is obvious. And yet he nods once, narrowing sharp eyes at me, and then lets me go. He sits back on his heels again, towering over me. I freeze. I should probably bolt but I know what that will lead to: a chase around the room, broken furniture and potentially broken bones to match. Besides, I think that will only make things worse. I grip my hands together over my chest, trying to keep my eyes firmly fixed on his. Trying desperately not to glance down at the straining hard-on that’s pulling against his grey boxers.
He smirks down at me, leaning back a little. This pushes his cock closer to my hands as he straddles me, and I actually roll my eyes at this, suddenly a little less afraid. “You have got to be joking?”
He shakes his head, still incredibly grave. “Not joking, Sloane. You just woke the whole villa. And at a time when going unnoticed would probably work in our favor, too.” His voice is gravel on gravel, deep and bottomless, filled with clashing desires. He’s mad at me, but he also wants to fuck my brains out. “You’re fucking reckless. You show up here without any idea what you’re getting yourself or me into.” He reaches down and roughly palms one of my breasts through my clothes, squeezing hard enough that I inhale quickly. “I came pretty fucking close to being eighty-sixed yesterday, and the likelihood of it happening today is even higher. You put yourself at risk when I specifically told you not to. And then you go hollering at the top of your lungs at the crack of fucking dawn, reminding everyone that we’re here and we’re a fucking nuisance. So if you’re gonna scream, Sloane, I’m gonna give you a reason.”