Page 70 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“I know I inspire your gag reflex. It takes time and experience for women to blow someone my size. I wouldn’t worry about it until you get your first period.”
“I’m twenty-two,” she fumed, absently tugging at her shirt until it pulled against her chest and I noticed I made her nipples hard.
“Wow, you’ve been an adult for two seconds. Congratu-fucking-lations.” I tore my eyes away from her nipples. “Nevertheless, I appreciate that—this time—you’re able to keep your hands to yourself. It must be difficult, considering the past two times we were alone in a room together, you forced yourself on me.”
I stepped forward until her tits brushed against my stomach, just like they had last night when she’d pressed against me in the elevator, angry breaths caressing my skin.
She’s Reed’s age, I reminded myself when the urge to turn her around, flip her over my lap, and mark her skin gripped me. She needed to learn discipline, yes, but she was too young and too tempting for me to be near.
“I didn’t force—” She stopped herself, flicked her eyes down to where our bodies met, stepped back, and delivered a saccharine smile. “Is there a point to all this or did you want to isolate me so my coworkers can hate me more?”
I studied her. The daughter of a thief. The woman whose actions could never be justified. I didn’t know who I hated more—her or myself for wanting her.
“The point is, Prescott Hotels is not Winthrop Textiles. I will not allow another Winthrop to ruin the livelihoods of thousands of people. Any stealing, scheming, and general misbehavior will not be tolerated.”
“You’re the thief,” she seethed, ignoring the whole part about the merry band of thieves she called a family. “I want my wallet back.”
“Or?”
Her eyes flashed, but she said nothing. What could she say? The one thing she had that I wanted was her dad’s location, and I wouldn’t let it slip that I wanted it. Not until the perfect moment.
She retreated. Chin up and silent.
I stood alone in the room, staring at her ass as she left.
Victory felt bittersweet on my tongue, and if she was defeat, I wondered what defeat would taste like.
I’d always had an obsessive fascination with storms. They reminded me to breathe, smelled like fresh starts, and were teachers in a world full of lessons.
Sophomore year of high school, Reed
and I shared drinks on a backroad deep into my family’s property, the area no one ever went to or even bothered to maintain. Tipsy and reckless as always, I hopped behind one of Dad’s Range Rovers, careening down the road at high speeds.
Half a mile later, Reed swearing in the passenger seat, I crashed the car into a ditch when the rain started slamming against the windshield and visibility went from a hundred to zero fast. By the time Reed and I climbed out, the thunderstorm raged in full force.
Involving Betty or Hank would risk Virginia’s wrath (and their jobs), and Nash had moved out by then—long gone and only showing up every other weekend to eat dinner with his parents and screw whatever slice of the month he graced with his presence.
That left Dad.
I almost begged Reed to call Virginia instead, because even though Virginia would be furious, Dad would be disappointed and that was worse.
He came within thirty minutes, dropping his meeting with a fabric supplier to make it back by dark. The rain poured down on the dirt road. I could barely make out his silver Mercedes.
Reed and I leaned against a tree stump off the path.
“How mad do you think he’ll be?” Reed whispered, tapping his fingers against the ground as Dad drew nearer.
“Not at all.” My words accompanied a groan.
Please, be mad.
Please, be mad.
Please, be mad.
I took in Dad’s face. He shut his door and rounded the SUV to us. Nope. Not mad. Let down. So, so much worse. Eyebrows pulled together, giving me the look parents gave their kids when their report cards came back all Cs.
“Told you he wouldn’t be mad.” I ran a palm along my jaw.
