Taste of revenge

19

Chapter Nineteen
Noelle

"W hat..." the words tumble out of my mouth as a twisted grin appears on
his face.
"So that's what you've been up to," he says, his mouth curling up in
derision. "This cheap trick might work on other men, but you chose the
wrong target."
"I don't think so," I reply confidently, willing myself not to panic, even
though I find myself caught in his web. "I think I chose the perfect target," I
drawl, shifting around so I'm sitting closer to his lap.
His hand tightens over my neck instinctively, his expression almost
pained.
"A little thirsty, Noelle, aren't you?" he mocks. "Let me guess," he
pauses, chuckling as he sets his cold eyes on me. "No one will fuck the
crazy in you?"
My lips draw into a thin line, the jibe hitting the mark. I may be
impervious to a lot of things, but being called crazy on a regular basis has a
way of screwing with someone.
"I'm not crazy," I whisper.
"Still a little liar," he retorts, bringing me closer until his face is inches
away from mine. "You might flaunt your body, and you might throw
yourself at me," he pauses, his breath on my lips a tantalizing caress. "But
you're the last woman I'd ever fuck," he resolutely states.
My heart drums in my chest, my pulse through the roof as I can only
stare into his crystal clear eyes—a shade so painfully beautiful it's making

my insides clench with longing. And as much as I'd like to remain unmoved
in the face of his insults, I can't.
"Now who's the liar?" I fire back, trying to mask the hurt—anything to
hide the way his words affect me. Going on the offensive might be the only
way to keep myself in check. "You want me," I say, dropping my voice a
notch and doing my best at sounding seductive—though I'm clueless at best
at what I'm doing. "You want me and you hate yourself for wanting me."
"I don't," he grits out, his jaw clenched. His fingers, too, tighten over
my skin, and a gasp escapes my lips at the sudden pressure.
"You do," I counter, a need to taunt him growing inside of me. "Why
don't you give in?" I ask softly, bringing my hand to his face and cupping
his cheek. He jerks at my touch, but he doesn't move away, his steely eyes
still on me. "Who knows, I might please you better than Lucero," I whisper
as I lean forward, our lips mere inches away from each other.
I don't know where this is all coming from. I'm being more forward than
I've been in my entire life.
He holds himself still, but as he hears Lucero's name, his entire body
becomes stiff, a terrifying frostiness entering his eyes.
"Do not," he starts, so much aggression emanating from that deep voice
of his that I find it hard not to tremble in his grasp, "say her name. You're
not fit to utter her name."
With that, he thrusts me away from him, flinging me backwards. My
back hits the seat, a sliver of pain flaring at the brusque movement.
It should be enough to make me stop. It should be enough to make me
realize that I'm way over my head, dealing with a dangerous man on the
verge of snapping.
But there's something inside of me—something I don't quite understand
and I don't want to understand. Because it's irrational just like the way he
makes me feel.
Hate. Resentment. Abhorrence.
Arousal.
He despises me. That much is clear. And I should return the feeling—if
only for the way he's treated me until now.
But why can't I? Why does the mere thought of him and Lucero cause
me so much pain, making me act so unlike myself?

My usual self-preservation is long gone as I proceed to bait him,
throwing all rational thinking out the window.
There's a twitch in his cheek as he still looks at me with murder in his
eyes.
But his animosity only serves to spur me further. I lean back, slowly
parting my legs. My skirt is bunched up around my ass and I know that any
slight movement gives him a peek at my underwear.
He's doing his best to look me in the eye, but I can feel the tension
radiating off him.
We spend long, drawn-out moments in a battle of wills.
Me, slowly spreading my legs even more. Him, trying his best to resist
looking.
The tension is thick, and I can hear his breathing—harsh and barely
controlled. His muscles are tightly coiled as if he's only just keeping himself
from jumping on me—to kill me or fuck me, I don't know.
"You're playing with fire, Noelle," he grits his teeth as he addresses me.
"Am I?" I tilt my head to the side. My hands on my knees, I slowly trail
my fingers up my inner thighs.
He's forcing himself to keep his eyes on my face, but the moment my
hands near the junction of my thighs, he loses that battle with himself. His
gaze snaps to my underwear, and I know I have him where I want him.
He swallows, unable to wrench his eyes from that particular spot. And
to tease him even further, I lean back, arching my spine and bringing my
pelvis closer to the edge of the seat.
There's a dangerous glint to his eyes as his pupils contract, his stare so
intense I feel it in my core.
But just like he's currently captivated by my spread thighs, I'm not
indifferent, either. Oh, I'm anything but indifferent as I feel a gush of
wetness pour out of me, my folds slick with uncomfortable arousal.
"I am playing with fire. Hot, liquid fire," I rasp, my voice husky.
My lids flutter closed as I shift in my seat, seeking to alleviate the
growing discomfort in my lower belly.
One moment I feel the slight friction of the leather seat against my
aching core, the next I'm on my back, with Raf between my open legs, his
knee close to that area that begs for relief.