CHAPTER TWELVE: Slut

Ashford

Flirting is like scoring a goal.

No matter how good you are at it, there are still so many things you have to consider for it to actually work.

With Christian Thompson, it isn't at all like that.

Flirting with him is like gambling.

I can say words that'll make his breath come out harsher, make his pretty eyes dilate, and make him swallow roughly.

But what I can't do, is make him agree that he even remotely wants to take me up on my offer.

And I badly want to do that.

Fine, I can concede to defeat.

He doesn't have to follow me up to my room tonight—I have a date for that, but I can't seem to understand why he's so hell-bent on acting like I upset him.

That is why I'm so fixated.

"Don’t you have any decency?" His words come out gritted, and his eyes dart all around us, like he's scared someone might see us.

I raise a brow, and smirk at him, like I didn't just tell him that I was receiving a blow job when he'd been badmouthing me.

There's something about the guy that makes the things I say sound not half as bad in my ears. Admitting to deep-throating another man in his involuntary presence should make me cringe.

It doesn't.

"I do, actually. Why?" I give him a lopsided grin.

One he doesn't replicate as his frown deepens.

He leans impossibly closer to me, taking me by surprise when he's the one to close the space between us and not the other way around.

I hold my breath, afraid to inhale too much of him. I don't need to add his scent to the list of things I can find attractive about the guy.

He exhales. "Are you always this much of a cock slut, or are you trying new things out?"

All the air in my lungs whooshes out of me when those dirty words escape his lips.

For a moment, my eyes don't meet his, and I blink rapidly, trying to calm my heartbeat.

Clenching my fist to regain myself, I give him a dry chuckle. "I'm not a—I'm not a cock slut for your information."

I can't even say the words without turning an awful shade of red. I've always known I don't blush prettily, so I don't even want to imagine what I look like right now.

He pushes me back, till I feel the bar table press my hips. "Then get a fucking grip."

I nibble on my lower lip, and nod, half enjoying the hard tone he's using on me, and half wondering if I even remember what having a dignity feels like.

Maybe I need this kind of reality check every once in a while. One man who doesn't fall over himself to be with me.

Too bad, it ended up being the one man I'm achingly interested in.

Just perfect.

"I understand. I'm sorry for coming on to you so heavily, okay? I'm usually not this—" I don't even know what to say.

Not this desperate?

This delusional?

Fuck, I've never been so out of depth around a man before.

I expect Christian to step back when I say those words, but he doesn't.

Instead, a pained look appears on his face, and he looks like he's trembling—holding himself back from doing something.

Worry lines my forehead.

"Are you alright?" I ask, while carefully examining his features.

Is he in some kind of pain? Or is he still mad at me?

Finally, after what feels like forever with him burning my face off with his piercing gaze, he steps back.

Wiping at his forehead, he gives me one annoyed look, before calling the waiter. By now, I'm seriously worried that I might have ruined his night.

Even if I thought he might be gay, I won't deny that I did come a little too heavy on him tonight.

He doesn't like me, and I should have understood that.

Instead, I made it my mission to push him to the wall, so in a last attempt at an apology, I placed my hand on his to stop him from pulling his wallet out.

"Please let me pay for your—" The words aren't completely out of my mouth before he turns to me with a sharp glare.

His eyes are darker, and the rage in them is very much real. I flinch and step away from him, but not before he presses his forearm to my throat, nearly cutting off my airway.

"Don't—don't touch me, okay?" He grinds the words out like they physically hurt him to say, and I wince.

Shit, do I rub him that wrongly?

I raise both hands in defeat and try not to stare too intently at him. "My bad, I’m sorry.”

How did things go this wrong?

One minute we're harmlessly flirting, the next minute he looks like he wants to bash my face in.

He drops a few dollars on the table, and turns away from me, but not before saying one last thing.

"I don't hope to see you again, but the next time you try to hit on me with this faggot nonsense, I'll break your nose."

His words are hard, and I can tell he means them, but my mind isn't quick to grasp them.

Those words cause a different kind of reaction in me, and it takes me a while to understand just what I'm feeling.

My breathing hitches in my throat, my trousers growing cramped from the tent quickly rising, my eyes growing half-lidded and my cheeks slightly flushed.

Arousal.

Pure and simple.

Fuck, it just has to be with this guy, didn't it?

I silently pray he doesn't see through me, or doesn't look down but I have no such luck, not when my cock is aching for release and he pulls his arm away from me.

"You fucking slag. Do you even have an ounce of self-control?" He says the words with spite and mockery, and my expression darkens.

Who is he to say something like that to me?

I shove him roughly. "Fuck you."