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“Well, I’m not. I haven’t survived ambushes and gun fights to be ended by a stubborn woman on a set of stairs.”
“I’m not your doll,” I say, holding the dress out for him to take back. “You don’t get to dress me up and order me around.” Luka turns away, grabs a pair of brown heels from the shoe rack on the bottom of the armoire, and drops them on the floor at my feet. “I get to do whatever I’d like with you.”
As the arm that has been draped on the back of the couch moves to the cushion between us and then to my leg, his fingers curling around the smooth skin of my thigh. Play dead. That is all I can think. It’s what you do in a bear attack…I think.
