Which is stupid.
As if I care about what he thinks of me.
My body is not just defined, but it’s solid with hard-earned muscles, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of, even if he is frowning hard. I slightly flex my triceps, making the muscles pop just as the sculpture should be. With his stare flying back and forth from my body to his clay piece, he seems to forget that he hates me and uses me to perfect his art.
I shouldn’t be helping him.
But the thought of him seeing me anytime he looks at this artwork is enough to have me holding still. It’ll be a sweet sort of torture. The gift that keeps on giving. A monster for a muse.
I’m not an idiot. I know Alis finds me attractive. Using that against him is a temptation I can’t walk away from.
I’ll slice into Alister Sommers with any weapon I can.
This one might hurt the worst, which has me grinning.
“Your evil smile doesn’t intimidate me,” he mutters, brown eyes briefly finding mine before they’re back on his art. “But if it makes you feel better, go ahead and believe it.”
“Does my dick intimidate you?” I taunt, pretending to reach for the button on my jeans.
“If I add that to my piece, I’m going to need more clay.” His challenging smirk rattles me for a moment. “Remember, I felt how big your hard-on was in the kitchen.”
Fucker.
“I wasn’t hard for you,” I snap back, taking his stupid bait and letting him win this round.
“Oh,” he says, feigning surprise. “If that was you soft, I can’t begin to imagine what you’d feel like hard.”
His words have a flood of embarrassing heat rushing down to my dick. To my utter disbelief, my cock thickens in my jeans. I’m frozen in horror, but he’s once more distracted by the clay. I let out a relieved breath of air that he didn’t witness what his stupid words did to me.
“We don’t have to be enemies,” he murmurs, his brows furrowed in concentration. “In fact, it would benefit us if we could find a way to be civil to each other.”
I clench my jaw, raking my gaze over his stupid bleached hair that doesn’t match his dark eyebrows. My eyes settle on his pink bottom lip that’s slightly swollen from the way he tugs on it with his teeth when he’s focused.
“I much prefer this arrangement,” I murmur, my words coming out husky for some reason.
His lips kick up on one side in a teasing grin. “You half-naked and alone with me?”
Explosive anger detonates inside me. I grab hold of the front of his shirt, yanking him across the table beside his sculpture. He grunts as the edge presses into his stomach. The deep, dark windows into his wicked soul bore into me far too closely for my liking.
Fuck.
His scent floods my nostrils—lime and coconut. It’s an odd scent that has me curious. He doesn’t smell like a typical guy. He smells like pie.
“Why do you smell like that?” I demand, distracted by the way his hand, stained by the clay, grips my wrist.
“Like what?” His brows furl in confusion. “Clay?”
“No. You smell…”
“What?”
“Sweet,” I growl. “Like pie or the beach or summer or some shit.”
His grin is wide and victorious. “Why don’t you have a little taste and see for yourself?”
I release him, jerking my hand back as though he burned it. The smugness clouding around him is cloying and toxic. I don’t like verbally sparring with this little fucker.
I’d rather beat his ass the good old-fashioned way with my fist to his face.
“Watch your back tomorrow,” I snap, storming toward the door.
“Oh, brother, doggy style is so much fun,” he croons in a taunting way. “How did you know I prefer to bottom?”
“Fuck you, Wonderland.”
“One can certainly hope.”
The fucker winks at me, and it’s all I can do to hightail it out of that house before I get my ass landed in jail for stabbing Alis Sommers with one of his stupid sculpture tools.
It’s after midnight when I hear the front door open.
Unbelievable.
I fling off my blanket and storm through the house until I find my sister. She’s trying to sneak in, but I’m ready for her.
“What the hell?” I demand as I take in her disheveled appearance. “Where have you been?”
She rolls her eyes, which grates on my nerves. “None of your business because you’re not my dad.”
I get a whiff of beer, and it takes everything in me not to go off on her. Sure, when I was sixteen, I had already started drinking sometimes with my friends, but it doesn’t mean it’s okay for my little sister to do the same.
“Want me to call Dad?” I threaten, crossing my arms over my chest.
“As if you’d actually talk to him.”
“I had dinner with him tonight,” I throw back at her.