Page 144 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Brothers Grimm.
In which a cruel king rules over a stolen kingdom, and a poor servant lives in the tyrant’s line of fire.
Only, I knew how those fairy tales ended.
When the people ended.
“All I’m standing on is a bed of false promises.” I begged my stomach to steady. It churned, full of favorite foods and lies. “You like Singapore, sure. That’s not an answer. Not all of it.”
Nash leaned against the counter, hands shoved into his dress slacks pockets. “It’s the one you’re getting.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” I edged forward until we stood toe-to-toe. I needed him to look at me—really look at me—and understand I was dead serious. “I’m not going to judge you, Nash. We push each other’s buttons. I say you’re cruel. You say my name like it’s a curse and a sin. But have I ever, for a single second, made you feel like I thought of you as anything less than you are?”
“No.” The truth sat between us like an unwelcome visitor, lingering too long as we wondered how it had even gotten there. He rubbed at the back of his neck before returning the palm to his pocket. “The building next door.”
“What about it?”
“I stayed there once. Delilah and I ate at the restaurant on the roof. Outdoors. No ceiling. Shitty fucking food, but I felt high enough in the sky to touch Dad, far enough from Eastridge to breathe, and close enough to the ground to convince myself it was reality. It’s the only time I ever wanted to do this. Run Prescott Hotels, instead of burning it to the ground. I’m buying the building next to it and constructing a skyscraper that’s taller, better, closer to the moon.”
I tipped my head back and eyed the ceiling, wishing we stood outside. “How was the sky?”
“What do you mean?”
Muttering a magic word, I sloped my head back to him. “Were there stars?”
“It’s the city…”
“What does that mean? Yes or no?”
“No, there weren’t stars.”
“A starless night,” I whispered, enchanted, unaware that I’d edged myself against him.
It happened so fast.
Our lips crashed together, our teeth clanging.
It wasn’t a nice kiss, because he didn’t deserve a nice kiss. No matter how much the world thought of him, no matter the savior Eastridge and the press considered him to be, no matter how much everyone at Prescott Hotels or the soup kitchen raved about him, he didn’t deserve nice.
Not from me.
Never from me.
He kissed me like the villain he was. Rough and unrelenting. I pulled at his body, skin, neck. Anything I could get my hands on. Sliding my tongue into his mouth, we warred with each stroke.
His hands met my waist and lifted me easily. I wrapped my legs around his back, groaning when he placed me onto the countertop and ground against me. Whatever skin I could reach, I stole, touching it like it was mine. Pretending it was mine.
And by the end, we were panting, and his shirt had a tear down the side, and mine laid somewhere across the room without him ever actually pulling it off.
“Lagom,” I whispered, resting my forehead to his, chasing my breaths.
He tasted like something permanent. Something that would be etched on my lips long after we parted.
And it felt wrong.
The kiss felt wrong.
Not because he was my boss.
