Page 46 of Twisted Prince
“Everything I did was to protect you. So men couldn’t use your body again, so you wouldn’t have to sell it to survive. Why were you so damn adamant about leaving if this was as big as you could dream? I mean, come on, Mel. We’ve got clubs in New York. If you wanted to dance, I’m sure Pyotr would have hired you. Fuck, we’re not idiots. We won’t stop girls from earning cash on the side if that’s what they choose to do.”
“That’s not fair. You don’t understand,” she insists, her onyx eyes igniting with fury.
“No? Tell me you aren’t selling your body. Tell me you don’t strip naked every fucking night so men can ogle you, picture you as they jerk off. How much do you charge to give them a hand?”
Mel’s chin trembles, making the hole in my chest yawn painfully wide. She presses her lips together to suppress her emotion, but she doesn’t say anything. She can’t. Because she knows I’m right. And the fact that she doesn’t deny it leaves me on the brink of losing my mind.
I’m being unreasonable.
I know that.
Mel was never mine to possess.
But confirming that she ran from me only to let other men have what I can’t is pure torture.
Ugly resentment rises up inside me at the pain she dealt when she left. It took everything I had not to come after her, to let her go because I knew she was worth more than the life I could offer. I couldn’t hate her for wanting to get away. I couldn’t blame her for wishing for something better.
But to find her here, at Pearl’s of all places, working for the Kelly syndicate?
It’s a low blow, and it hits way too close to home. Does she even know how personal the insult is?
The irony doesn’t escape me that if I’d followed my original path in life, I might have been buried balls deep inside her tonight for a couple thousand bucks. Just paying for my pleasure, not a care in the world. Because she waltzed right into the future that could have been mine and made herself perfectly at home.
But I walked away from this life. Because I wanted to be a better man than that. And now here she is, offering up that pleasure to god only knows who else. Probably the fucking Kelly cousin who groped her in the middle of her performance tonight.
“Fuck it,” I snarl, my temper winning out. “I’m taking you back with me to New York.” Shoving my hand into my pocket, I pull out my wallet and shake it at her. “If you want to sell your body, then fine. I’ll buy it. I don’t care about the price.” Dragging out my wad of cash, I flash a hundred in her face. “How much?”
“I don’t want your money, Gleb,” Mel says, her voice trembling.
And if I weren’t so completely overwhelmed by dark, poisonous emotions, I might feel bad. But I’m too far gone. I can’t stop myself. Separating a hundred dollar bill from the stack, I curl my fingers around the low-cut neckline of her dress as I shove the currency into her bra.
“That should cover a kiss at least, don’t you think?” I demand.
Tears make her dark eyes shine as hurt ripples across her beautiful face. And a stabbing guilt lances through me. But it’s not enough to stop me.
Palming the back of her head with one hand, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her forcefully against me. Our lips crash together, and an electric current races through my body, jump-starting my dead heart. It feels dangerously good to hold her, to kiss her once again.
I ache with the need to taste her, but I don’t push it further. Because I’m dangerously close to crossing a line. And once I do, I’ll never forgive myself.
Mel gasps, her body melting against mine as her hands fist around my jacket collar. Her lips part, and for a moment, our tongues stroke together in a passionate kiss. It lights my soul on fire, igniting every nerve in my body as I come to life.
Then, a second later, she shoves me away with as much force as she can muster.
I let her, watching warily as she sucks in deep, frantic lungfuls of air that make her chest heave. Heat sears inside her eyes.
And after all those times she’s held back, she slaps me.
19
MEL
Gleb’s touch is like a drug, his kiss a shot of adrenaline straight to my heart. It would be too easy to fall into his arms and forget about fighting, forget about my fears, forget about everything that stands between us.
But I’m so mad at him for suggesting I would turn to prostitution that I completely lost control. My palm stings; I struck him so hard, and I can see the faint outline of my fingertips turning his light skin red. And even though I regret it as he turns his face to meet my eyes again, I won’t apologize.
“No amount of money you could offer would convince me to sell myself to you,” I hiss.
No amount anyone could offer would be enough. He should know, after everything I’ve been through, that I hate the idea of being sold like livestock. It doesn’t matter who’s the buyer—or the seller. I’m not for sale.
