Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Or so I thought.
Christ, how needy and pathetic was it to want or need it to have meant something to him? What did that say about me?
Whatever it said, I needed to get a grip. I needed to play it cool too.
"Glad we cleared that up. Though next time you feel I am in desperate need of an orgasm, rest assured my vibrator has it handled. Multiple times over."
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. I knew what they were, how he would see them. He would see them the same way I saw him telling me to have the balls to speak my mind, he would see them as a challenge.
Crap.
But, to my surprise, Byron made a low, rumbling sound in his chest that seemed akin to a chuckle. "Good for you."
"Good for me?" I parroted back, not sure what the hell he was talking about.
"Did you see it in your job description that you had to take whatever shit I dished out?"
"Oh, you mean the job description that demands I wear a whore's uniform and watch you shower?"
"That'd be the one," he said, pushing off the wall, moving toward me. And there was something primal in his gate, predatory, like a cat stalking its prey, like he knew he had me.
Well, he fucking didn't.
"I believe it was in the fine print under 'I can threaten her father's life or well being anytime she tries to disobey me'," I snapped, effectively stopping him about a foot in front of me.
"Listen..."
"No," I said, shaking my head, folding my arms over my chest, refusing to take a step in retreat, but wanting everything about me to scream that I was in no way inviting him into my space.
"No?" he asked, brow going up as he searched my face.
"No. I'm not going to listen to you. What could you possibly say to make that okay? Nothing. Shakespeare, with all his words, could never find the right ones to put together to make that not completely and utterly screwed up. And, well, let's face it, you're no Shakespeare. So I'm not going to listen to whatever flimsy little excuses or explanations you can come up with to somehow make you feel like less of a monster. My father is the only person in this entire shitty fucking world who gives a damn about me. And, yeah, he's a fuck up. And, yeah, I've had to clean up his messes one too many times. But he is all I have. And you are trying to keep me obedient by threatening to take everything from me. So take whatever you were going to say and shove it up your ass. I don't want to hear it."
"Prue," he said, his voice whisper-soft, the sound of my name on his lips was way, way too intimate, too familiar, too appealing. He closed the space between us, his hand going to my chin, snagging it, and dragging it up so he could pin my eyes with his dark ones. "I'm not going to hurt your father."
"Forgive me if I am finding that hard to believe. One minute, your word is everything, the next you're going to round up my dad if I walk out of your bathroom, the next you're back to saying you won't hurt him."
"My word is everything. But if you remember, that word was that I wasn't going to hurt you. I haven't. I won't. But I am giving my word now that I am not going to hurt your father. I'm not taking anything from you."
I ignored the weird fluttery feeling in my belly at his words, at the firmness and honesty behind them. "Just my dignity," I said, trying to jerk my chin from his fingers, but his fingers were holding on tight enough to bruise.
"Your dignity?" he repeated like he didn't know exactly what I was talking about.
Well, I wasn't going to let him play dumb. "The clothes."
"You think those clothes take away your dignity?"
"What the hell else could the purpose of them be? Sorry if this bursts your little male fantasy, but women don't walk around their houses in lingerie and fuck-me heels every day of their lives."
"What is shameful or embarrassing about wearing a skirt and a camisole?" he countered. "Are you insecure? Do you have a problem with how you look?"
"How the hell could that be any of your business?"
"You brought it up."
"My point is I should be able to wear what I want to wear."
"Slacks and button-ups that you button all the way up, you mean?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Prue, you can call the clothes I put you in a whore's uniform all you want, but don't even try to fucking convince me that those shitty clothes you put yourself in are anything other than another type of uniform."