“And if I refuse?” he asks. “Well then, monsieur, I—I will have no choice but to force you.” “How?” My stomach sinks. “I beg your pardon?” “How will you force me?” he repeats, intrigued now. And that curiosity—that glint of humor in his black eyes—is somehow worse than his disdain. When he takes another step toward me, I take another step back, and his lips twitch. “Surely you must have some idea, or you wouldn’t have threatened it. Go on, pet. Don’t stop now. Tell me what you intend to do to me.”
