The Complete Arrogant Series (7 page)

Jensen

What the fuck
am I doing?

I’m standing naked, taking a cold
shower because it’s the only thing that can remedy the burden between my legs.

I crossed the line with Waverly.
I meant to provoke her. I meant to make her think. Instead I took it a step too
far.

That soft,
fuckable, virgin mouth.

Those big, clear blue eyes.

Her long, sandy hair that
cascades down those grip-able shoulders and grazes the top of her cleavage.

Sigh
.

She’s a good girl.

I need to leave her alone,
because at the end of the day, she’s not my problem. In a few short months I’ll
be out of here, and I won’t think about her twice.

I need to let her grow up with
her back-assward belief system. Let her wear her purity ring and sacred temple
garments and be married off as the fifth or sixth wife to some fifty-year-old
bastard that Mark will inevitably set her up with.

I pound my fist into the acrylic
of the shower, followed by my forehead.

She’s
not my fucking problem.

But this whole world she lives in
is nothing but abuse.

Watching Bellamy and Waverly
being raised to believe their worth is boiled down to sharing a husband with a
group of other brainwashed women, birthing as many babies as their bodies can
handle, and cooking and cleaning infuriates me.

Especially when it’s tied into
religion, as if God wants them to be second-fucking-class citizens.

I slap a fistful of shampoo into
my hair and lather. Hard. My fingers dig into my scalp.

“You’re
never going to be good enough for one of those girls,”
my father
would say after church whenever he caught me checking out the deacon’s
daughters.
“Don’t even try. They need
real men are the ones who make their fathers proud. Not some promiscuous pencil-dick
like you.”

Religion and modern-day human
sexuality are a dangerous mix. I told that once to my sex-ed teacher, which
prompted a phone call to my father, which resulted in a belt beating that night
before dinner.

I jerk the water to warm, unable
to tolerate the cold a moment longer, and think of Waverly again. My cock
hardens in an instant and I grip it with my left hand, rubbing and tugging as
water beads down my body. When I’m fully erect, my balls tighten and swell.

I shut my eyes tight as I imagine
Waverly’s pink tongue tasting the tip of my dick before her mouth takes the
rest. I imagine looking down, my eyes getting lost in hers as she moans with
each lick and stroke. My free hand clenches as I envision a handful of her silky
hair threading through my fingers.

Everything becomes clear as day
for a second.

Waverly needs me.

She needs me and she doesn’t even
know it.

I’m the only one who can save
her. I’m the only one who can teach her that sins of the flesh are perfectly
normal—dangerous to ignore, even. Something tells me she’s saving herself
for some polygamous husband who sees her as nothing but a vessel in which to
plant his delusional seed.

My moment of clarity comes to a
grinding halt when my mind goes blank, my body goes numb, and I cum all over
the wall of the acrylic shower I share with my two “sisters.”

I twist the water off and wrap a
towel around my waist before heading down the hall to my room. I don’t feel
guilty. I feel clearheaded. I know what I need to do.

I’m walking with purpose now.

I strut down the hall like a
goddamned peacock, gazing into Waverly’s room as I pass by. She’s not in there.
She’s probably hiding from me. Shit. I’ve probably traumatized her.

Waverly makes me want sex like Beyoncé
makes me want to put a ring on it.

I remind myself not everyone lost
their virginity at fourteen or screwed their father’s girlfriend multiple times
a week since the day they got their driver’s license. Some might say I’m
oversexed. I say I’m liberated. My cock, my sexuality, is the only part of me I’ve
ever been able to control.

But I’m not in it to fuck her.
Unless she wants it.
I’m not a predator. I’m a beacon of
change. A catalyst. I’m here to bring about a longitudinal shift that will open
her eyes in ways she’s only ever dreamed of.

If she chooses
to accept it.

I twist the handle to my room,
dropping my towel at the same time.

Only I’m not alone.

Found
her.

Waverly

So
that’s
what a
penis looks like in real life.

“What are you doing in here?” He
scrambles for the towel he’s just dropped, covering up as fast as he can. I’m
shocked. I fully expect him to flaunt it in my face. Wag it around a little.
Make a show of it.

I’m not sure if it’s big or
small. I’ve nothing to compare it to. I only look at it for half a second
because it’s kind of
funny-looking
, this situation is
weird, and I’m trying my hardest to act like none of this fazes me.

“Embarrassed?” I tease.

How
does he like his space invaded?

“You have
virgin
eyes, Waverly,” he mocks back. A system of black, tribal
tattoos cover his right shoulder, snaking down his biceps, which flex as he
grips his towel with his fist. “I’m being a gentleman.”

“First time for everything, I
suppose.”

“Why are you in my room?” He
shuts the door behind him and keeps a careful distance from me. He’s staring at
me like I’m a stranger. Like he doesn’t recognize me.

Good
.

I’m going to beat him at his own
game,
only he doesn’t know it yet. The second he walked out
of the laundry room earlier, I decided then and there that there was only one
way to beat him at his mind games. He wants to teach me a lesson about choices
and control? I’ll show him I’m fully in control. He thinks he has me pegged?
He’ll have to guess again.

I’ll teach him to take me at face
value.

I was raised to be a good and
faithful, virtuous and upright. I have patience a mile long and a soft spot a
mile wide.

But there’s a part of me, deep
inside where no one can see, that can outfox the most cunning of foxes and outsmart
the smartest of smartasses. There’s rebellion in my marrow. We all have it.
Most of us, if we’ve any wits about us, keep it hidden from the rest of the
world. We ignore the way it calls our name when no one’s around, and then every
so often, it asks us to dance when it’s sure no one’s watching.

Jensen Mackey has messed with the
wrong Miller. From here on out, I’m dancing with rebellion if only to teach
him
a lesson.

“I thought about what you said.”
I cross my legs and sit up straight, batting my lashes. I drag my hand across
his comforter before scooting back.

“That quick? Don’t need a night
to sleep on it?” He’s testing me, but I think he’s scared. I’m about to call
his bluff.

My throat constricts.
My face heats.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s
exhilarating and terrifying all at once. I unbutton my cardigan one pearl
button at a time. I may as well be undressing in slow motion, but it’s absolutely
intentional. Jensen stands by his dresser, his golden eyes wide as saucers and
nothing coming from his rarely silent lips. The room spins like the bed is some
sort of merry-go-round, but I don’t stop.

Two buttons…

Three buttons…

Four…

My cleavage peeks out from my
white camisole, drawing his eyes to my milky flesh like bees to honey.

“I know you want to touch them,”
I say, having absolutely no intention of letting him come anywhere near them.

This is all a bit of an
experiment that will hopefully turn into a deterrent. The constant provocation
since the day we met needs to stop. It ends now. Here. With me calling his
bluff.

“Waverly.” My name is a low rumble
in his throat. He swallows, daring my eyes to travel down to where his fist
still clenches his towel around his waist. There’s clearly a pitched tent thing
going on. It’s much bigger than it was before and much bigger than I expected a
penis to be.

Do
they get that big?

I smile and hope he can’t see me gradually
losing my cool. I summon the strength of the Harlequin heroine resting on the
pages between my mattress and box spring and slap a smoldering expression on my
face.

What’s happening right now is a highly
strategic game, not unlike chess.

Your move, Jensen.

His lips form a straight line.
His eyes search mine. “You sure this is what you want?”

I could slap him. He’s should be
taking the bait, not calling my bluff. Where’s the lusty gaze he threw my way
earlier? Where are his needy hands?
His greedy intrusion?
What happened to Jensen from the laundry room?

“No, I’m just undressing in front
of you for no reason.” I roll my eyes.

“I’d hardly call it undressing.
You wear more layers than an Eskimo, and you haven’t even taken your sweater
off yet.” He leans against his dresser like we’ve got all the time in the
world.

News
flash: our entire family is downstairs and it’s only a matter of time before
they notice we’re the only two missing.

I swallow the anger swelling in
my chest and let his words bounce right off me. I’m not losing this game. I’m
playing to win.

“You clearly didn’t understand a
word of what I said to you earlier.” He still hasn’t moved from his perch by
the dresser.

My face pinches. Once again,
Jensen has found a way to burrow himself right beneath my skin. I resist the
urge to scratch.

“What didn’t I understand?” I
brush my hair over my shoulder.

“You’re doing all this…” His eyes
fall to my cleavage and then lift up to my gaze. “Because you think it’s what I
want.
Because I planted the seed.
Because I told you I
thought about you. You’re doing it all for me. The control is still mine,
Waverly. You’re a smart girl. How can you not understand that?”

No,
no. This isn’t going the way I planned.

He ambles across the room to the
side of the bed. The grip on his towel loosens, threatening to let go
altogether any second now. My heart pounds hard in my ears.

Think
fast.

“Nice try.” His full mouth turns
into a half-smirk. I want to slap it off his face. “But I think you should go. I
bet they’re looking for you downstairs.”

No.

Just… no.

He doesn’t get to do this.

He doesn’t get to knock down
everything I’ve built up in one fell swoop.

“I want you to touch me.” The words
make my lips feel wavy and foreign, like they belong to someone else. I’ve never
spoken that way before, not even in my fantasies. Those are dirty words, and
they taste wrong and delicious coming from my clean lips.

I tug away at the top of my
sweater and pop my chest out a little more. The man must have more self-control
than God. He’s still not taking the bait. “I want it, Jensen. You told me the
choice was mine. I’m not doing this for you.”

Why
won’t you try to touch me?

He licks his lips, but his body
is still. Frozen. He’s reading me like an open book, the upper hand slipping from
my tight little grasp straight into his second by second.

“Take off your top,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“You want me so bad, show me. I
want you naked and sprawled across my bed. Give yourself to me. You know
,
if that’s what you want to do.”

I could smack him.

He leans into my space, his
energy saturating mine. I’m trying to calculate my next move, but I can’t think
straight when his warm soapy scent is infiltrating the air I breathe and his
hardness is making itself known from behind his thin towel.

My thoughts don’t make sense and
my body isn’t making things any easier. There’s a slick heat between my thighs
I wasn’t anticipating, an uninvited arousal.

Knock
,
knock
.

“Go,” he whispers. He points to
the far side of his bed, motioning for me to hide behind it.

“Waverly in here?” It’s my dad.

This is bad.

Very, very
bad.

“Nope. Just got out of the
shower. Haven’t seen her.” Jensen is cool as a cucumber, like he’s covered this
sort of thing up a thousand times before.

I capture a lungful of air; afraid
if I so much as exhale my father will hear it. I’ve seen him come unglued
before, and it isn’t pretty. There are two distinct sides to Mark Miller: his
everyday side and the side that emerges when you cross him. Jensen standing half-naked
in front of his virgin daughter would definitely fall into the latter category.

It’s silent. I picture my father
scanning the perimeter, looking for a single out of place item or a foot
sticking out from under the bed. He never misses a thing.

My heart pounds hard in my ears.
We’re seconds away from a catastrophic event.

Please,
please, please…

“Hm. If you see her around, tell
her I’m looking for her.” I pick up a slight suspicion in my father’s voice.

My lungs plead for oxygen, yet
I’m still afraid to breathe. We’re almost in the clear.

“Will do.” Jensen’s ability to
remain calm around my father is nothing short of impressive.

The door clicks shut two seconds
later. I wait for the ping of the lock to fill the quiet room,
then
I remember his door has no lock.

“You can come out now,” Jensen
whispers.

I rise gently, fearful that my
father will come bursting back through the door if he hears so much as an extra
floorboard creak coming from Jensen’s room.

That
was close.

My cardigan is disheveled, my
face flushed. Jensen’s eyes travel from my chest to my mouth before settling on
my eyes.

“Come on,” he says. “No more
playing around.”

I push past him, invading his
space the way he invades mine. “I wasn’t playing. I was offering myself to you
on a silver platter. I chose you, Jensen. And now I choose to leave.”

He grips my wrist but not too
tight. Just enough to let me know the balance of power is shifting in his favor
once more.

“Coming in here and teasing me
with that church mouse striptease of yours isn’t offering
yourself
to me on a silver platter,” he whispers into my ear. “Come back with a little
more dignity next time. I don’t want an AUB wife. I want a girl in charge of
her own sexuality.”

I jerk my wrist from his grip.
“Oh, I’m in charge, Jensen.”

“Yeah, for some reason, I don’t
believe you.”

“I don’t need to prove myself to
you.” My arms lock tight across my chest.

“Yeah, you do.” He leans into my
ear once again. “You want me to take you seriously? Fine. Tonight, when you go
to sleep, I want you to finger yourself as you think about me. I want you to
come all over those delicate fingers of yours as you think about my cock inside
you.”

My body quivers against my
wishes, betraying me like a willful criminal. The warmth between my thighs
spreads into a euphoric high I’ve never experienced before. Even the thought of
being bad feels good.

“That is,” he adds, “if you want
to.
Your choice.
Obviously.”

 
“I don’t need to think about you to get
off.”

“Sure. Just like I don’t
need
to think about you, but I do it
anyway. I control what dirty thoughts lurk in the corners of my warped little
mind.”

“How many times?”

“Twice.” He smirks. “How many
times have you…? Wait. Have you ever pleasured yourself, Waverly?”

“Of course I have,” I lie. I’ve
touched myself once. But brought myself to the brink of an orgasm? Never. I
don’t know how. I’ve slipped a finger down there once after reading select
pages from my romance novels. It was warm and wet and highly sensitive. It felt
good until the guilt set in, and I quickly retrieved my hand and vowed never to
do it again.

Jensen rubs the space above his
temple, releasing a harsh groan.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“We just took five giant fucking steps
backwards.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Make yourself come tonight,” he
says. “That’s your assignment. Bring yourself to orgasm.”

“You’re telling me what to do,” I
scoff. “What happened to having choices? If I touch myself, won’t that be
because you told me to touch myself?”

“Forget all that,” he says, his
words coarse and frustrated. “Making yourself come is the ultimate lesson in
control. Relax. Trust your instincts. Do what feels good.”

His words send a shiver down my
spine and heat between my legs, creating a burning itch too powerful not to
scratch. My resolve, previously hardened and stiff, vanishes into thin air.

“Go.” He places his hands on my
shoulders and escorts me to his door. His lips curl into the most mischievous
smile I’ve ever seen. “I’ll be listening.”