“I don’t really care,” I state, but I am curious.
“You want me.” He says it so softly I barely hear him. Glancing in my mirror, he’s looking down, his face unreadable, his tone serious.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I respond curtly, trying to stay resilient. I’ve seen the girls who are associated with his club; he’s a player and is telling me what I want to hear.
He grunts, a smile breaking across his face. “You’re telling me you didn’t like me kissing you the other night? That my hand up your shirt didn’t light a fire in those little panties of yours?” His tone is arrogant. My body responds, my nipples hardening, craving to have his rough touch one more time. Goddamn him, why can’t he shut up?
“I was drunk,” I defend, looking out the windshield.
The car goes quiet, and I’m thankful; his confrontation made me uncomfortable.
“Hmm?” I look in the rearview mirror to see his face. His mouth is parted, the corner of one lip curved slightly as he looks downward.
“How sore do you think you’ll be after I’m done fucking you?”