“I can do this all night, so feel free to keep fighting me.”
I buck against him, raising my free hand to slap him, but he grabs both my hands over my head as he presses his body down on top of me. My chest rises and falls as heat and lust slam into me, and my nipples turn to bullets under my flimsy bra.
He turns rigidly still, easing himself back until he’s sitting on my lap, his hungry eyes latched onto my chest. I suck in a sharp breath when I feel his hard-on pressing against my core, and I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could do the same with my thighs.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
He’s hurt me.
Humiliated me.
Groped me.
I do not want to jump his bones.
I keep repeating it over and over in my head, willing him to get off me, yet I can’t articulate that request either. I am seriously screwed in the head when it comes to this guy, and nothing good can come from that.
A little whimper escapes my lips when his hot mouth brushes the sensitive skin just under my ear. I hold my breath as he trails his lips up and down my neck, inhaling deeply, while his grip on my wrists loosens and he rocks his hips against mine. Another whimper flies out of my mouth, and I curse my weak hormones.
I want to shove this asshole away, and deny him what he wants, but I also want to pull him closer and let him do wicked things to my body because I’m aching for him which is all kinds of fucked up. My pussy is throbbing with need, pulsing and jerking, as he thrusts slowly against me.
“How is it I crave the thing I hate most?” he whispers, his mouth moving to my jaw. “How do you do that? Make me want you when I despise you?”
“If you discover the answer, please enlighten me,” I rasp, keeping my eyes shut.
“Open your eyes, Abigail.” My name rolls seductively off his tongue, doing funny things to my insides. He peppers my jawline with kisses, and I’m on the verge of spontaneous combustion. My eyes blink open, and I stare into his beautiful face. He’s so close I have no other choice. Conflict rages in his eyes, and I relate to the feeling. “I think you’ve been put on this Earth purely to torment me,” he whispers, letting my wrists go so he can wind his hands into my hair. “I need you to hate me.”
“Oh, trust me, I’m already there.”
“Not nearly enough,” he whispers, kissing the corner of my mouth.
“What do you want from me, Cam?” I whisper back.
He kisses the other corner of my mouth, and my dress is stuck to my skin, my body overheating with liquid lust, my core pulsing with an intense need.
“Everything, Abigail. I’m going to take everything.”
Before I can respond, he crashes his mouth to mine, gripping my head in his large palms so he can direct our kiss.
Although calling it a kiss is a bit like calling a Ferrari an average car.
This kiss is the Rolls Royce of kisses.
It’s a claiming.
A branding.
An invasion.
A promise.
An attack.
A challenge.
A punishment.
A reward.
And a hundred other things.
He devours my lips with a frantic need, plunging his tongue into my mouth, and grinding his hips against mine. Every nerve ending and cell in my body is hypersensitive, and I’m drowning in Camden Marshall, both hating and loving it at the same time.
My fingers trail across the nape of his neck, fondling the downy hairs there. Then I dig my nails into his scalp, dragging them up and down the shorn sides, and he growls into my mouth, clasping my head tighter, as his punishing lips bruise mine.
My head is swimming, and I’m drowning in his rough kisses, greedy touch, and the feel of his hot body grinding against mine. The devil on my shoulder taunts me to take, take, take, while the angel in my ear implores me to push him away.
Inside, I’m screaming.
Tormented and aroused.
Confused and clear at the same time.
I’m overheating, my body building to a crescendo as we claw at one another, thrusting our bodies together through our clothes, desperate to get closer and yet keep our separation. I scream into his mouth as my climax hits, throwing back my head and jerking violently as the craziest, most explosive orgasm rips through me with violent intensity. He grunts into my ear, his breathing labored, and my scalp stings as he yanks hard on the strands of my hair while rocking against me with his eyes closed.
I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but I think he just came too.
My breathing returns to normal, my chest settles down, and a heavy cloud descends on top of me with the realization of what we’ve just done.
I don’t trust that this isn’t another part of whatever sick game he’s playing, and I’ve just succumbed.
Again.
After the way he treated me today, making out with him is the absolute last thing I should be doing.
I’m sickened, and I couldn’t hate myself any more than I do in this moment. “Get off me.”
He climbs into the passenger seat without argument, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting an inner battle as I cast a surreptitious look his direction. He looks equally pissed off by this weird chemistry we share, and I’m glad it’s not only me.
Tension is thick in the air, and I want to slam my hands against the steering wheel and scream until my lungs bleed. But I won’t give him the satisfaction, so I force myself to calm down.
“Drive,” he bites out.
“I’m not going to your party.” I need to get as far away from him as possible.
“I’ve one word for you.” He angles his head, eyeballing me with his usual hateful mask in place. “Jane.”
That ensures I’ll do his bidding, and I’m sick to my stomach as I start the engine and maneuver the car out of the parking lot. He taps coordinates into the car’s GPS system, and neither of us speaks for ages.
“That meant nothing,” he eventually says.
“Less than nothing,” I agree, flooring it when I reach the outskirts of town and hit the open road.
I watch him, on the sly, from the corner of my eye, inspecting every square inch of the car, running his fingers across the shiny dash with reluctant admiration in his eyes. “You like it?” I ask when the unbearable silence becomes almost claustrophobic.
“I fucking hate it,” he spits, and I crank out a laugh.
“Well, that figures.” His unspoken question lingers in the air. “I helped design it. My father wanted to design a car that would appeal to young, rich, society girls, and he roped me into working with the design team a couple summers ago.” I’d never admit it to my father, but I really enjoyed that project. He’s amassed an amazingly creative team who is a joy to work with. They didn’t treat me as the owner’s daughter. Or look down on me for being a spoiled, rich teenager.
They valued my opinions.
Challenged my ideas.
Expanded my creative brain.
I cast a quick glance at him. “So, it stands to reason you’d hate it.”
Except I know he was coveting it too.
I think he has the same love-hate relationship with my car he has with me.
Silence engulfs us again, and I briefly consider putting some music on, but I prefer the awkward quiet as it reminds me he’s my enemy. Something I seem to forget every time he touches me.
“Why do you do it?” he asks a few beats later.
“Do what?”
“All the elite bullshit.”
“Why do you?” I throw back.
“I have reasons. Good ones,” he replies with his face turned away so I can’t see his reaction. Except I can make out his reflection in the window, and I detect the hatred blistering in his eyes, oozing like molten lava.
“As do I,” I say.
His phone vibrates, and he glances at it quickly, a perplexed look appearing on his face. The cell continues to vibrate while
he stares at it. At the last second, he answers the call. “Hey.” He averts his eyes, looking out the window again. “I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” His tone has lowered, and the reflection in the window shows his features have softened, and he looks kinda sad. “I promise I’ll show up next time.” He glances briefly at me before looking away again. “I can’t really talk now.” He’s quiet for a few beats. “Yeah, I miss you too,” he quietly says before ending the call.
I’m dying to know who put that whimsical look on his face, but I know better than to ask.
“Take a left here,” he snaps a couple minutes later, and I turn into an open driveway lined with tall trees on either side. When we round the bend, an impressive modern building comes into view. The entire house is lit up like it’s the Fourth of July, and with the flashing lights, thumping music I can hear through the windows of the car, and people stumbling across the lawn with beer bottles in hand, it looks like the quintessential party house.
The property stretches across two levels, and it’s constructed of cherry wood and glass with an angled roof and a glass and silver balcony wrapping around the entire upper level. Cars are parked haphazardly on the gravel-lined space in front of the house, and I pull into the side, a little farther back. I want to ensure I’m not hemmed in so I can make my escape whenever I need to.
We exit the car together, walking silently into the house side by side. Rhythmic beats and multicolored strobe lights stream through the open door as we step into a wide foyer with winding glass stairs on either side. Strips of industrial-type lighting extend the length of the ceiling overhead, and the oak hardwood floors under foot are distressed, giving it an edgy, modern feel.
I follow Cam into a massive kitchen comprising glossy white cupboards and stainless-steel appliances and watch as he makes a beeline for the refrigerator. “Beer?” he offers, extending a chilled bottle to me.
I shake my head. “I’m good.” There’s no way I’m consuming any alcohol in the devil’s lair. I need to stay sharp. Now that I’m here, I’ve decided I might as well use the opportunity to do a little snooping. “Where are Lauder’s parents?” I inquire as he nudges the door shut with his hip, popping the cap on his beer.
“In New York.”
“He lives here alone?”
He lifts the bottle to his mouth, wrapping his gorgeous lips around the rim and drinking greedily. The way his throat works as he swallows is ridiculously sexy, and I turn my head, avoiding getting caught drooling, looking out the window at the impressive outdoor space.
Separate basketball and tennis courts are off to either side, sandwiching a utilitarian garden with copious seating areas. A magnificent pool resides between the garden and the house, rimmed by an extensive patio area, cluttered with loungers occupied by fornicating couples.
The place is thronged with kids I recognize from school. Boys and girls holler and shriek while taking flying jumps into the massive swimming pool, spraying water everywhere. A frown furrows my brow as I rake my gaze over the assembled crew. At least some of the inner circle are here.
Traitorous pricks.
The guys won’t be pleased to hear it.
“The three of us live here,” Cam acknowledges, in between guzzling his beer. “And if you’re thinking of doing any snooping, you can forget it. We locked our bedrooms.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” I tease, smirking, because a little thing like a lock won’t keep me out.
“I’m beginning to understand how your mind works, and it’s a waste of time. Besides, I didn’t bring you here to aid your agenda.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
He gestures for me to follow him, and I trail alongside him as we exit a different door than the one we came in. We enter a large living space that is operating as a dance floor. A DJ spins tunes from a makeshift booth at the top of the room, and heaving bodies jostle and grind as beats pulse across the space.
I spot more familiar faces.
Faces who should not be here.
A few of them scurry off, groveling as they throw apologies over their shoulder while they race out of the place. However, what’s more worrisome is how most don’t appear to care that I’ve spotted them. Cam’s earlier humiliation has eradicated whatever respect I’ve heretofore commanded, adding to the reasons why I need to hold on to my hatred.
Cam pushes his way through the room, out into a long hallway. Moans and cries filter out from closed doors as we pass, and my mind, unhelpfully, conjures up images of Cam grinding on top of me back in my car.
He’s the enemy. Never forget.
He takes the stairs two at a time, and I keep pace behind him. Stopping at the first door we come to, at the top of the stairs, he raps three times.
Jackson swings the door open, grinning as he peruses the length of my body in my conservative black and gold dress with matching heels. I was expecting my father to appear at the show, so I’d brought appropriate Daddy-approved clothing to change into, but I’m hardly party ready. “If you’re aiming for the sexy secretary look,” he says, standing aside to let us enter. “You’ve nailed it.”
I poke my tongue out at him as he slams the door shut, grabbing my arm and pushing me up against it. “Next time you do that, I’ll devour your tongue and your lips until your head spins.”
“Promises, promises,” I purr, sliding out from under his arm.
“Damn,” he mumbles from behind. “Your ass looks hot in that dress.”
I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I toss over my shoulder. “You’re hard.”
Throwing back his head, he laughs. “How did you guess?”
“If you two are done flirting,” Cam snaps. “We have business to attend to.”
“Touchy, isn’t he?” Jackson quips, and now it’s my turn to laugh.
“Oh, you’ve no idea.” Ignoring Cam and Jackson, I claim a seat at the table beside Sawyer.
The room is a home study of sorts complete with a fitted shelving unit, desk, and storage unit. This six-seater table occupies center stage in the room, in front of the large floor-to-ceiling window which offers prime viewing of the debauchery going on outside.
Several girls are now topless in the pool, making for an attentive male audience, many of them with their hands down the front of their shorts, stroking their cocks. In the other, more shaded, corner of the pool, couples are having sex, uncaring they have an audience.
“Jealous, beautiful?” Jackson asks, noticing the focus of my attention.
“Hardly,” I scoff, leaning forward in my seat. “What is it you want now because I’m assuming you didn’t bring me here to party.”
“We didn’t.” Sawyer angles his laptop, so it’s facing me. It’s open on a Manning Motors log-in screen. “We need you to help us figure out your father’s password.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“And why is it you think I’d know? I’m female, which means my father shares nothing in relation to the business with me.”
“But you know important dates like birthdays and anniversaries and other personal data,” Sawyer supplies. “That’s usually what people use for passwords.”
I collapse in a fit of laughter because the thought is so absurd. The guys stare at me as if I’ve taken a trip to Crazy Town. “Did we say something funny?” Cam questions.
“Yes,” I say, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. “You seem to have mistaken my father for a normal person. For a human. You expect him to act like every other businessman with a family does when that is not who he is.”
Cam and Sawyer share a look. “Who is he then?”
“He’s a ruthless monster who cares about nothing except wealth, power, and status. He’s more likely to use something random and impersonal as his password.”
“What about his fuck buddy?” Cam asks. “What’s her name or date of birth?”
“They’re as interchangeable as the weather, and he rarely has just the one. I doubt he even knows their names.”
“
And you know this how?” Jackson rocks back in his chair with his hands behind his head.
“Because subtlety isn’t exactly his thing. He transformed the basement in our house into a sex den, and he spends most nights he’s home down there with his friends and a slew of prostitutes and strippers.”
“Fuck. Can we trade fathers?” Jackson jokes.
“I’d trade in a heartbeat; although, if the rumors are true, your father isn’t exactly a saint either.”
“He isn’t, but there’s no way my mom would let him build a sex room in our house even if they share an open marriage.”
“Can we focus?” Sawyer slides a page across to me. “Write every birthday, anniversary, memorable date, and anything you think it could be.”
“This is a waste of time. It won’t work.”
“Humor me.”
I shrug, starting to write stuff down even though it’s pointless.
Xavier regularly attempts to hack into my father’s home and office computers, but he can’t get through the firewall, and we’ve tried every computation of password we can think of without success. My father’s computers are as well protected as the safe in his study—rock solid and impenetrable.
“What else could it be?” Cam asks, pacing the room. He hasn’t sat down once, and I almost see the cogs turning in his head. He’s agitated. Whether it’s because of what just happened between us or this password issue is unknown.
“I. Don’t. Know.” I fold my arms across my chest.
Placing his palms down on the table, either side of me, he leans in. “Or maybe you do and you’re just not saying.”
“What is it you’re after, anyway?”
A malicious grin spreads across his mouth as he pushes his face in mine. “Answers and proof.”
“Well, that narrows it down,” I drawl sarcastically.
“Are we done here? I’ve weed to smoke and pussy to pound,” Jackson says, jumping up with his cell in hand. “Maybe Abby can have a think about it overnight.”
Cruel Intentions Page 14