“I could’ve paid for my own clothes,” I murmur as we step outside. “You could’ve,” he agrees easily, carrying the bags toward the car. “But you didn’t.” I scowl. “Because you didn’t give me a choice.” He pauses at the passenger door, glancing at me, his gaze steady. “You could’ve fought harder.” Heat prickles along my skin. I don’t know what to say to that, because the worst part is— He’s right. I shouldn’t have enjoyed that as much as I did, the way he took control, the way he decided things without hesitation. It should bother me. It does bother me. I let him do it. And I don’t know why.
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