“Wear this,” he said abruptly, pulling of his shoes. He knelt down, unlacing them with methodical precision, his movements controlled and deliberate.
I scoffed, crossing my arms. “Give those to some little princess who cares,” I muttered, spinning on my heel to walk away.
I didn’t get far. His hand shot out again, this time gripping my knee. The warmth of his touch burned through my skin, freezing me in place.
“Either wear the damn shoes,” he snarled, “or I’ll throw you over my shoulder. Your choice.” His gaze met mine, unflinching and daring.
I opened my mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes told me he wasn't bluffing. He’d follow through on that threat without hesitation, and I wasn’t in the mood to be manhandled—again. By him.
....
P.S: I WILL MUCH PREFER TO BE THROWN ON SHOULDER— just saying!!!
Writing these two is very sprinkle sprinkle feeling, bwaaahhharghhh !!