Page 99 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
God, trying to screw Nash had been a horrible idea, like taking on the Avengers armed with an unloaded gun. I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Ben.
Durga: Newsflash—you give horrible advice.
I deleted the text without sending. Guilt gnawed at my stomach. A—Ben usually nailed every piece of advice he delivered. B—screwing Nash out of my system would have worked if he were anyone else but Nash, the one guy on Earth to take more pleasure in turning down a no-strings-attached hook up than wild sex.
Pocketing my phone, I eyed everyone. Cayden’s desk was too messy for anyone to justify booting him from it, so Ch
antilly sat on the couch I normally shared with Ida Marie and Hannah.
No one explained why Nash was here as I entered, the silence so opposite of what this place resembled sans dictator Nash.
I dropped my Jana Sport at the foot of the couch and leaned down to hug Ida Marie. “Sorry that I’m late, y’all. Some asshole wouldn’t let me into the elevator, and then I had to stop by the, um, restroom.”
Lame as far as excuses went.
I was off my A-game, stealing glances at Nash every few seconds and trying not to be obvious about it. He didn’t look up at me. In fact, he typed away at his laptop as if nothing had happened.
“Pay dock.” Chantilly pointed to the coffee table with her chewed-up pen, not bothering to offer me her attention.
I took a seat on the floor, wondering if I had stepped into the Twilight zone. I pulled out my sketchbook to begin drawing portrait ideas for the C-level suites. As soon as my sketchbook hit the coffee table, a stack of folders fell above it like Jenga pieces collapsing.
I counted down from ten, bit my tongue until it bled, and finally looked up at the jackass who had thrown the papers down. “Yes?”
Nash wore the same bespoke suit. His hair no longer stuck up in several directions, but his eyes remained wild, caged by a thinning veneer. I studied him for signs I had company in this lust.
How easy it had been for him to leave me etched doubt into my brain.
His tongue against my collarbone.
His fingers curled inside me.
His cock pressed against the back of my throat.
None of it seemed to faze him.
But to me, touching him was a song on repeat you couldn’t forget. Each touch—the beat. Each orgasm—the bass. Each demand of his—the lyrics.
Beg for me.
Suck my cock.
Swallow my cum.
A song that never got old.
“I need copies of these.” His eyes snapped to the Bvlgari watch he never would have been caught dead wearing four years ago. “Two each.”
I skimmed the papers. Half of them had been typed in a foreign language. The word Singapore stood out to me, along with Delilah and Nash’s names.
“I’m not your assistant.” When I swiped them off the table, the papers floated to the carpet like dead leaves. I wanted to step on them and watch them crumble. “Do it yourself.”
“Check your contract.”
Nash didn’t bother to pick up the papers. He pulled out his phone, and I just knew he was playing Candy Crush. I doubted he played for the game, but for the pleasure of pissing people off. Another tool in an arsenal that resembled the U.S. Army’s.
He continued with his game, adding, “You’ll notice clause forty-two, subsection C clearly states each employee may have added job responsibility in the company’s time of need. I am the company, and I am in need.”
I waited for a sign he was bluffing.
