Harley had to put one hand on the floor in order to right herself, and it was not a gracefully executed thing. Truthfully if she wasn’t as flexible and athletic as she was, there was no way she could have pulled it off. And he was still holding her wrist. A little too hard for comfort.
So it was gonna be like that, huh? Fine. He wanted to play the bully, she’d let him. For now. It wasn’t like she didn’t have experience. Most men, Harley found, liked to think they were big and strong and macho. You play up to that, they underestimated you. They underestimated you, you could hit ‘em harder because they wouldn’t see it coming.
So she stood awkwardly, arm bent at an odd angle, with a patiently put-upon expression on her face. Which changed as he spoke, becoming instead an affronted scowl. How would he know if she was a criminal or not? He’d met her twice! And she hadn’t done anything bad either time. Well, not really bad. Who’d twisted up his undies?
“Hey!” she protested sharply, tugging unsubtly to get her wrist free. “I ain’t a criminal. Don’t go throwing around accusations that aren’t true!”
Then her voice turned coy, and she deliberately and blatantly batted her lashes at him, obviously insincere. “You know, if you wanted to hold hands, big guy, all you had to do was ask.”