My critics were right. I was out there, artsy, deranged, petty, lanky, busty, independent, and mouthy.
And for the most part, I liked myself.
There.
I said it.
But I didn’t like myself tonight.
Hank Prescott’s death had been preventable. Reed had kept that from me. Betty had kept that from me. Nash had kept that from me—and hated me.
And me?
I smelled like Nash did before he hated me.
A thief cloaked in a tiger’s scent.
The first thing I should have done when I ran back to my closet—barely remembering to shove my towel and shower caddy into my knock-off backpack that read “Jana Sport” rather than “JanSport”—was call Reed or Betty. Better yet, I should have tendered my resignation and gotten my ass out of dodge.
Instead, I sprawled across my sheets, spraying water everywhere because I hadn’t even bothered to dry my hair. Flashes of Nash moments ago rattled me.
Steam licking his bare chest.
His sharp inhale at the sight of my breasts.
Wetness gathering between my legs as he glared at me like he wanted to hate-fuck me.
My shaky hands barely managed to hold my phone.
I pulled up the Eastridge United app and shot a message to the one person who never judged me, my lust so thick it almost seemed tangible.
Durga: I need to come.
His reply came in seconds as if he’d had the app open to our chat when I messaged.
Benkinersophobia: I already have my cock in my hands. Strip out of your clothes, spread your legs, and tell me how much you want my cock.
I did as he asked, realizing I’d returned in my t-shirt and underwear, leaving my jeans hostage in Nash’s bathroom. Shit. The other pants I owned were oversized sweatpants that would fit an entire cruise ship. Ones I reserved for laundry day.
Durga: If you don’t make me come within the next ten seconds, I’m deleting this app.
Benkinersophobia: Cum not come. Say it correctly. Better yet, say it out loud. Beg me to make you cum.
I did, never backing down, even when my cheeks flamed as I panted to empty air, “Make me come, Ben.”
It was Nash I pictured hovering above me. The vicious eyes. The messed-up hair. And now I knew what he looked like beneath his shirt. Vast muscles stretched the width of his body. A deep V led to what I remembered, all these years later, as a long, thick cock.
My lips craved the scars peppering his body.
I wanted to kiss them.
Bite them.
Trace them with my tongue.
I didn’t believe in the word perfect. Never used it to describe anything in my life. But it was the only word I could conjure when it came to Nash’s body. His personality might have left a lot to be desired, but his body and face left me aching.
Durga: Please, make me cum. My fingers are tracing my clit. Tell me what to do with them.
Benkinersophobia: I didn’t say you could touch your pussy. Wrap your mouth around your fingers, imagine they’re my cock, and apologize for disobeying.
Drawing my knees together, I kneeled and brought my fingers to my mouth, my heart threatening to escape my chest in the darkness. I could taste myself on my tongue as I slid three fingers past my lips and imagined Nash standing above me, feeding me his hard cock.
I whispered around my fingers, “I’m sorry for disobeying you.”
Jesus.
I was so turned on. Relinquishing control drove me crazy. I wanted to feel dominated, overpowered, fucked so thoroughly I couldn’t walk. Even with a knife to my throat and the threat of death dangling above me, I would never admit it was because rough, hard sex reminded me of how Nash fucked.
My first orgasm from sex.
My only orgasm from sex.
And I was so wet thinking about him, I could feel it sliding past my lips. I picked up my phone and squeezed my thighs together, trying to bring relief.
Durga: I can taste myself on my fingers.
Benkinersophobia: Describe the taste to me.
Durga: Light… Almost like nothing, but with a hint of citrus and vanilla from my body wash.
Durga: I like the taste.
Benkinersophobia: Pull out the vibrator I sent you, connect it to the app, lay on your back, and let me fuck you raw. Text me when it’s inside you.
I reached for one of my boxes stacked in the corner, blindly fished out the vibrator Ben had sent me ages ago, and connected it to the company’s app. Ben had full access to the app, which meant he could control it from wherever he was.
Laying on my back, I rubbed the tip on my nub before sliding the entire length inside me.
Durga: It’s in me.
My fingers clenched the sheets as the vibrator came to life inside me. It pulsed to a steady rhythm, and just when I was close, Ben slowed the vibrations until I wanted to scream.
Benkinersophobia: Not so fast.
Durga: Ass.
Benkinersophobia: Beg me to make you cum.
Durga: Please.
Benkinersophobia: Please, what?
Durga: Please, make me cum.
He turned up the speed, the ribbed edges creating friction that had my eyes rolling back. I brought my hands to my breasts and squeezed, flicking each of my nipples, remembering how it felt to have Nash staring at me.
Staring at them.
My breaths fogged the tiny room. They came out in uneven pants. I came so hard, screaming Nash’s name, too exerted to even feel guilty. My arms moved like jello, but I forced myself to slide the vibrator out of my body and turn it off.
When I came down from the orgasm, I shot Ben a text.
Durga: Thank you.
Benkinersophobia: Fuck, I needed that.
Durga: I’m sorry I came to your words with Nash’s face on my mind. Nash’s tortured faced with the fucked-up childhood, and the scarred body, and the dead Dad. Nash, who sacrificed himself for his family and was hurt because of mine. I’m sorry I love you but get wet for Nash.
I didn’t send the last message.
It was too honest.
Too real.
Too raw.
Nash had it wrong.
I wasn’t the broken.
I was the breaker.
Emery’s sudden reentrance into my life reminded me I needed to get more hands-on with my approach to revenge. Fika had disappeared, and I was no closer to finding Gideon than when I’d hired him four years ago.
Worse—Fika knew where Gideon was, and I had wasted four years trusting the wrong guy. Again. Who knew what else he had kept from me?
“Did you hire a private investigator?” I asked Delilah, pulling up my correspondence with a Singaporean diplomat on my laptop.
I’d never actually wanted Prescott Hotels. It was a responsibility I’d taken on because I needed the money to fund all my other projects. My penance. The charities. The revenge. I created Prescott Hotels with illegal money, building new hotels and buying and remodeling old ones across the world.
But this project—Singapore.
I wanted it.
Badly.
Two years ago, on a scouting trip in Asia, the plane made an emergency landing in Singapore. Delilah and I ate dinner on the top of the highest building. Feeling like a god staring at the specks of cars and buildings below, I decided I wanted it.
I wanted to buy the building and remodel it as a hotel. Even as a bidding war began against Black Enterprises and I knew it would get expensive, I didn’t back down. We greased palms, exchanged emails with all the top contractors in Asia, and set up meetings with dozens of local vendors.
I felt the project within my grasp, and if I could feel happiness, I would have.
“Did you hire an investigator?” I repeated when it became clear Delilah had ignored me.
She paused in front of my desk, a small container of Greek yogurt in her hand and a biodegradable spoon in the other. “Yes, Master. He’ll update you when he finds something, Mas
ter. Anything else I can do for you, Master? Massage your hands, Master? Spoon-feed you lunch, Master? Schedule your annual prostate exam, Master?”
“Point taken and ignored.” I minimized the Singapore files and pulled up my folder on Gideon. My eyes skimmed the trade data for Winthrop Textiles, trying to pinpoint what didn’t feel right.
Delilah returned to her desk, an oversized Parnian we’d had shipped here a few days after the design staff meeting. “Chantilly asked for a sit-down, and before you ask me to relay any messages, no. I am not your assistant.”
Ignoring her last sentence, I ground out, “Tell her no.”
I exited out of the document, knowing I’d find nothing if the S.E.C. couldn’t. Before I could stop them, my fingers pulled up Emery’s Insta account. She had three followers, @TheInaccessible as her handle, a feed full of words I was sure didn’t exist, and a bio that read, Scratch here to read my status.
Other than that, no pictures of herself. The only twenty-two-year-old to roam this Earth without ever having taken a selfie.
Fucking perfect.
It occurred to me that I had nothing to gain from playing friendly with Emery. Nothing I could say or do would make her quit. She wasn’t built to back down from a challenge. She would cut out her liver and sell it on the black market if it meant she’d win a bet.
Delilah snapped the lid off the yogurt and pointed her spoon at me. “I’m starting to think the words ‘I’, ‘am’, ‘not’, ‘your’, and ‘assistant’ are not in your vocabulary. Also, she’s outside.”
“At this point, I’m convinced you’re making up words to fuck with me. Fucking hell.” Scrubbing at my face, I eyed my watch and exited out of the dictionary disguised as an Insta account. “How long has she been out there?”
“Fifteen minutes? I wanted her to sweat.” D shoved a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth with the grace of a hog. “She’s dressed like she wants something from you, and it isn’t a promotion.”
“Wait fifteen minutes and let her in.”
“I am not your assistant,” Delilah repeated with a smile on her face.
She set down her yogurt, walked to the door, and let Chantilly in without waiting the fifteen minutes I’d requested. She took a seat on her oversized wing-backed chair and didn’t bother hiding her amused smile as she watched Chantilly flick her eyes back and forth between us.
Chantilly stood by the door, the smile slipping from her face when she realized I wasn’t going to invite her in. “Umm…” She upped her smile until she resembled Jack Nicholson’s Joker and snagged a seat on the chair in front of my desk.
(For the record, Heath Ledger played the best Joker, and I’d annihilate anyone who argues with me about it.)
“That chair’s not yours,” I bit out, sliding my phone out of my pocket to message Durga.
Benkinersophobia: You’ve been quiet. Everything good?
God, I was acting like a pre-teen tool who wanted to get his dick wet for the first time. Truthfully, Durga could be an artificial intelligence playing games with me for all I knew, but she was also the closest thing to a relationship I’d ever had.
Three years of late nights, intense conversations, and phone sex.
I cared.
Okay?
Sue me. Take out an ad. Shout it to the world.
I fucking cared.
Chantilly shot up from the chair, stumbling her way out of the leather. “Oh, I thought… it was empty.”
“It’s Rosco’s. Rosco was just getting a sip of water.” I turned to the rat in front of Delilah’s desk, who had his hind leg raised. He lapped at his ass. “Weren’t you, Rosco?”
Delilah snorted when Rosco didn’t move.
Asshole.
I finally stared at Chantilly. “Who are you?”
Her expression reminded me a little of how I’d left Emery a few nights ago—mouth gaping like a whale shark’s. “I lead the design team?”
“Are you sure?”
“Huh?”
“If you lead my design team, you lead my design team. For God’s sake, don’t say it with a question mark. I feel embarrassed for you.”
“I-I… Yes, I lead the design team. I met you at the design meeting a few weeks ago. My name is Chantilly.”
“Why are you here?”
She toyed with the spaghetti strap of her short dress. “We need to bring on an additional member. Sally retired a few months ago, and Mary-Kate will be on maternity leave for the duration of this project. The workload is too high for two senior members, a junior member, and two interns. Our last project involved six people, and that location had less than half the square footage.”
“Fine.” I waved a hand to shoo her and returned to an email from a Singapore supplier. “Hire another junior associate.”
Chantilly still stood in front of me, unable to take a hint, reminding me of the idiots who responded to my one-word emails with paragraphs. “We ordered statuario flooring for the entire lobby and elevators. The tariff increase was more than we’d been expecting, so the budget is tighter elsewhere.”
I attached a jpeg of a middle finger to the email and replied to the supplier’s offer with one word—no. I’d sooner soak my dick in Icy Hot and visit a two-for-one brothel than pay triple the industry standard for subpar steel.
Durga messaged back. Finally.
Durga: It’s not you. There’s this guy.
I bit back a curse, aware of the audience. It wasn’t like Durga or I had been celibate these past three years, but it didn’t mean I liked to hear about another guy.
Benkinersophobia: He’s a pussy. Lose the guy.
Durga: You don’t know what I was going to say… -_-
Benkinersophobia: Don’t care. Don’t like him.
Durga: For the record, he’s a jerk.
Benkinersophobia: But you want him.
Her silence bugged the fuck out of me.
Benkinersophobia: There’s an obvious answer.
Durga: Yeah? What’s that?
Benkinersophobia: Hate-fuck him. Get the douche out of your system. Move on to a guy who deserves you.
Durga: Who deserves me?
Benkinersophobia: Not him.
When I glanced back at Chantilly, she was still talking. I tapped my Graff Diamonds watch and said, “Get to the point faster. You get one more sentence.”
She shifted from foot to foot, choosing that sentence wisely. “We don’t have it in the design budget to hire another designer.”
I needed Mary-Kate back. Mary-Kate didn’t talk. Where the fuck was Mary-Kate?
“Go above budget.” I pointed to the door. “Close it on your way out.”
“No,” Delilah cut in. “We need to stay on budget with this one. The Singapore contract may need more… leveraging.”
Bribes.
She meant bribes.
I fucking hated everyone.
I sighed, leaning against my chair to look at Delilah. “Hire another intern.”
Delilah didn’t bother returning my attention as she stated, “No.”
“Are you saying you won’t do it or I don’t have enough money to hire another intern?” I added a tab to my browser and double-checked my bank account.
Yep.
Still filthy rich.
“You pay your interns like they’ve been loyal employees for a decade. It’s basically like hiring an experienced employee,” her brow arched, “only you’re not getting an experienced employee.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I said, pulling up Emery’s employee file to verify.
Yearly salary—forty thousand, one-hundred, and forty-five dollars. Not exactly a windfall, but about two-and-a-half grand a month after taxes and withholding. Still, more than what Dad and Ma made working for the Winthrops.
Also, she had a trust fund that could make her overly-Botoxed mother weep, and Virginia had more plastic in her face than a delivery truck of Lean Cuisine trays. Just by working for Prescott Hotels, Emery had stolen a job that could have helped
someone else.
Maybe I could pay my interns less, but maybe I could also become a corporate welfare shill that contributed to problems like my parents’.
No, thank you and fuck you very much.
Delilah scribbled her signature on the bottom of something and added it to the mountain of papers on her desk. “I’m not exaggerating.”
Chantilly’s head ping-ponged between the both of us.
I asked, “What’s my net worth again?”
Delilah dropped her Conway Stewart pen and spooned yogurt into her mouth, not bothering to wipe it when a clump fell to her desk. “Not as high as you’d like to think, considering how much of it you give away. I shudder to think of a world run by you. Is fiscal responsibility in your vocabulary?”
Yes, and so is penance.
I bit my tongue.
This fight was a long time coming, but I wasn’t having it in front of Jessica Rabbit’s desperate long-lost cousin.
“You do charity work?” Chantilly fluttered her lashes at me and fingered a strand of hair. “I donated blood to the Red Cross a few years ago.”
I spared her a glance. “Chasmophile, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
Spiky nails the color of blood dug into the upholstered back of the three-thousand-dollar cantilever chair she’d tried to sit on. “It’s Chantilly.”
Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel Page 19