“I didn’t give you permission to leave,” he says through gritted teeth.
“My work here is done. I need to head back.” I love it when he treats me as his plaything. I want to please him. I work hard so I can hear those words of praise from his gorgeous mouth. But I also know when he’s frustrated with himself. I know he’s drawn toward me, but he also wants to resist feeling anything for me—that’s when he lashes out, hoping to hurt me. And this time, he did. And I… I won’t stand for that. It satisfies something in me to obey him. I love for him to order me to do his bidding, but he also has to respect me.
“You go home when I tell you to and not before,” he growls.
I firm my lips. “Why should I stay, when all you’ve done is insult me all evening?”
A bleak look enters his eyes. For a second, I glimpse his confusion, and it mirrors the conflicted feelings I harbor toward him. He’s the most conceited, egotistical man I’ve ever met. And the most powerful. And the most charismatic. And I hate him. And want him. And can’t stand him. And I still want him. Argh! Doesn’t change the fact that he caused me distress with his words.
