Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)(11)

The thought terrifies me-and yet I can't deny that the terror is tinged with something else. Something scary and exciting all at the same time. "I can do it." I force the words out past dry lips. "I'm not the same girl I was when you knew me."

"Aren't you?" His hands move to my hips, his fingertips resting on the edge of my pubic bone. My skin beneath his fingers warms, but it is the heat that pools between my thighs that has put me at a distinct disadvantage, and though I try to focus, I know with absolute certainty that if this showdown is going to be decided by cool minds and clear heads, I am going to lose.

It's not a pleasant thought, and I force myself to think about Griffin. About the past. About the money I need to earn. Even my grocery list. Anything I can think of to block out the way that Wyatt's touch is making me feel. Because what I'm thinking is that there could still be something between us.

What I'm thinking is that maybe I want there to be.

And those are thoughts that I really shouldn't be having.

"My models have to be exceptional. To not just display passion, but to feel it. And this final woman that I'm casting has to be honest with her emotions. With her desire. She's the centerpiece. The strongest and the most vulnerable."

"I can handle whatever I need to," I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

"So you say, but I'm not convinced."

He's still behind me, and I whip around to face him, surprised and angered by his casual indictment.

"Is this how you auditioned those women?" I demand. "Did you touch them? Did you stroke their skin and whisper to them? Because I'm thinking no."

"You'd be right," he says, surprising me.

"So you're punishing me."

His gaze never wavers as he says, "Maybe I am."

My chest tightens, and I immediately regret poking the beast. I'd never expected him to admit it, and now I'm staring straight into a past that I don't want to think about, much less discuss.

I draw a deep breath. "Then you're being an idiot. I need a job. You need a model. You're only hurting your show by turning me away."

His left eyebrow arches up, a trick I used to find bone-meltingly sexy. Now, all I feel is panic. And not just because I need this job and fear that he's going to send me away. No, the real source of my panic is something much deeper. Much more unexpected. And much, much scarier.

It's Wyatt. It's the girls on the wall. And it's this whirlwind of emotion swirling inside me that I don't understand and refuse to examine.



       
         
       
        

I square my shoulders, forcing myself to keep my eyes on the prize. The job. The paycheck. "Fine. Punish me all you want. Just give me a chance. I can do this."

He drags his fingers through his hair, and he no longer looks angry. Instead he looks wounded. Defeated. And I know that's all on me. Because he put his heart on the line once for me, and I know I ripped it to shreds.

"I can do this," I say again, as if repetition will persuade him. "I just need-"

"Can you? Sweet Kelsey Draper? You practically sank into the floor when you let out a curse a few minutes ago. I don't believe there's any way you can put yourself out there the way I need."

"I can. You just have to believe me."

"I don't."

"Then let me prove it to you."

"How?"

That is a really good question, and one I don't have an answer to. Then I remember a bachelorette party I got dragged to last year. "Do you know X-tasy?"

"The strip club in Van Nuys?" Something like amusement sparks on his face. "It's crossed my radar."

"Tonight. 9 o'clock."

"Why-"

"Just be there. And bring a pen. Because you're going to want me to sign your contract right then."

"Don't hold your breath," he says as he takes a single step toward me, and a pleasant but unwelcome warmth floods my body.

I take a step back in a vain effort to keep my wits about me, but he matches my movement. "I'm under the gun here, Kelsey," he says, leaning in even closer. "I need someone I can depend on."

I force my expression to remain bland. He's right in front of me, and if I take another step back, he'll have me caged in against the wall.

"I'm dependable," I say, but instead of sounding firm and determined, I sound breathy and overwhelmed.

"History would suggest otherwise."

His harsh word lands on me like a punch in the gut, and I fight the urge to cringe. Or, worse, to escape through that door again.

Except I did that already, didn't I? I left. I ran. And I never looked back.