The Wild Mustang & The Dancing Fairy: A Gorgeous Villain Prequel Novella by Saffron Kent (ereader for textbooks .txt) 📗

Her shoulders droop and she mumbles something before turning to me, winking and running away, leaving me alone with him.

Oh my God.

Oh my God, I’m gonna kill her. I’m so gonna kill her right now.

Actually, I’m so gonna kill him.

For being so… authoritative and angry.

Only he also makes me want to rub my legs together in restlessness when he talks like that, in his deep commanding voice.

But whatever.

I throw open the door and jump out, totally charged up to go after Tempest and make her pay for this. But I don’t get too far. In fact, I don’t even get to take more than a few steps away from his Mustang because there’s something stopping me.

Or someone.

How he made it out of the car and over to my side so fast, I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t go anywhere as long as he stands before me.

Or rather, as long as he’s backing me up into his car.

As soon as my spine hits the cold metal, I shiver and words jar out of me. “Let me go.”

He doesn’t.

Frankly, I didn’t expect him to.

But then I also didn’t expect him to lean forward. I didn’t expect him to put his arm on the roof of his car, just by my side, effectively stopping me from leaving.

Although I should have. Expected it, I mean.

If he can lock me up in a closet so I don’t get to run from him, he can do anything.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

In response, he runs his eyes all over my body, slowly, methodically, as if making a point before raising them back to my face. “Looking at you.”

Again, I get the urge to rub my thighs together at his low, heated tone. “Why?”

“Because that’s what you want, don’t you? You want me to look at you.”

“I do not,” I lie.

When did I become such a liar?

I thought I was the good girl.

He knows I’m lying too because a smirk breaks out on his ruby-red, crescent-shaped mouth. Only it has a dangerous edge, a humorless quality. “Yeah, you do. Why else would you be wearing something like that? Something that…” He looks me up and down again, a cursory and yet lingering glance. “Leaves very little to my imagination.”

My imagination.

As if.

I put my sweaty palms on his Mustang so my balance doesn’t falter. “That’s extremely arrogant of you, don’t you think? To assume that. That I’d wear something just to get your attention.”

Never mind that I did. I mean, subconsciously.

Okay maybe a little consciously but whatever.

He dips his chin in a condescending manner. “It’s the truth though, isn’t it?”

In response, I raise mine, just to look defiant. “No, it’s not. And this is a perfectly normal dress.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

I’m not sure what’s happening tonight but everything that I’m saying is making him angrier and angrier.

And none of that is even remotely bothersome to me.

Not even when he leans further down, shaking the car at my back and bringing his wolf eyes, which I cannot look away from, even closer.

“Because I don’t think that a perfectly normal dress would highlight every fucking curve of your tight ballerina body,” he says with clenched teeth. “Would it? Or that when you walk in it, your perky tits would be dangerously close to jiggling out. And the whole world could see the cheeks of your juicy, tight ass.”

For a number of seconds after he’s finished talking, I’m unable to believe the things he’s said.

For a number of seconds, I simply blink up at him.

I’ve never ever heard anyone talk about my body in such graphic, derogatory terms. Because it is all derogatory, isn’t it?

I should slap him in the face. I should.

I shouldn’t feel a rush in my chest that beads my nipples to achy points or shift on my feet just to rub my butt against his Mustang.

And the fact that he can make me feel and do all these inappropriate, less than respectable, bad things makes me say, “You’re an asshole.”

At my curse – which was so effortless for me, dangerously effortless when it comes to him – he flinches slightly before growing even more furious.

“I am. And in case your four older, overprotective brothers forgot to mention it to you, assholes like me don’t play by the rules. Assholes like me take whatever they want, whenever they want. And I’m probably the worst of them all.”

My breaths have gone haywire so my next words come out thin and breathless. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He pauses to bring his other arm up as well, putting it on the roof of his Mustang and making a cage around me. “That I’m the kind of asshole that keeps your brothers up at night. I’m the reason girls like you have a curfew. I’m the reason your mommy sits you down in your room and warns you about boys. She tells you how rotten they can be, how corrupt. How they’ll lie and cheat and do anything to stick their hands under your dress. I’m the reason your daddy locks your door at night. And he puts you in a bedroom on the top floor so no one can climb in. He bars your windows. He stands guard outside of your door on the off chance that I somehow still find a way in. And I fucking do. You know how?”

“H-how?”

He shakes the car again, making me teeter on my heels, unbalancing my world. “Because I’m the kind of asshole who’d break down any door. I’d climb a thousand stories. I’d climb a fucking tower. Just to be able to get into your room at night. Just to be able to see you. And I bet you wear those lacy white nighties, don’t you?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Yeah, I’d pull apart all the bars in your window. I’d fucking go to war with all four of your brothers just to be able to see you in one of those. Just to be able to get a