Sabrina runs her fingers through my hair, before tightening her grip. Arching into me, her breath hitches. “Jesus, Aiden. Please don’t stop.”
Hearing my name on her lips is like a balm to my soul I didn’t know I needed.
She’s already panting and making me feel like a king.
I’m loving the bite of her nails digging into my skin.
Sabrina kisses me like she can’t get enough.
Circling her clit with my thumb, I push in and curl two fingers. She begins to rock her hips to my rhythm. Sweet, sexy noises are coming from her mouth as my other hand pinches her nipple and my mouth claims hers. That was all Sabrina needed. My princess explodes around my fingers, and I swallow her moans as I help her ride out her orgasm.
With her face flushed and brown eyes wide, I can’t look away. She’s gorgeous.
Possibly the sexiest orgasm I’ve ever seen.
“Jesus Christ, Princess. I may need to wake up like this every day.” Pulling my hand out of her shorts, I lift my fingers up to her lips. “Open up, Brina.”
She obediently parts her lips and tentatively sucks herself off my fingers, swirling her tongue and making me imagine what it’ll be like when she sucks my dick. I fucking love the way she does what I tell her.
Scrunching her nose up, she makes an unenthusiastic face. “God, why does anyone want to go down on girls? That tastes gross.”
“Oh, baby. That tastes like victory.”
She laughs at me, and any tension that could have been lingering in the air evaporates with the sound.
14
Sabrina
Murphy pulls himself up to sit, leaning against the headboard. He can’t sit up completely on my lofted bed or he’ll hit his head on the ceiling. I try not to laugh, as he finds a comfortable position. I sit up, straightening my clothes, and cross my legs, leaning against the wall, angling myself to face him. Christ on a cracker, I cannot believe I just hooked up with Aiden Murphy.
He’s been my freaking unicorn for as long as I can remember, and I just sucked myself off his fingers.
Oh my God!
Okay.
Gotta play it cool right now.
“Did you sleep okay? You feeling any better?” Real freaking smooth, Sabrina. I’m ready to bitch slap my inner Jiminy Cricket. There’s a name for people who hear fucking voices in their heads.
“Considering the size of your bed, I slept fucking fantastic. Although I do think that we should sleep in my bed next time.”
Sweet baby Jesus in a manger.
Did he just say next time?
Aiden Murphy does not do next-times. He does one-time-onlys.
“Next time?” Okay, good. My voice didn’t squeak when I said this. That’s a step.
Oh, there’s that cocky grin. One side of his mouth kicks up, and he looks so freaking sexy I’d drop my panties right now if I was wearing any. “I’m sorry, Princess. Was this a “wham-bam-thank-you-man” kinda thing for you? Were you just using me for my body? Because if so, I have quite a few other things that I can do with my body to impress you. Although I was saving them for later. Figured I need to open my bag of tricks slowly for you, so you don’t get bored and you know . . . kick me to the curb.”
Say what now?
Kick who to the curb?
How about scream “Marry me, please. Let me have all your babies. Forget wanting to be a power player, a kingmaker in Washington DC. I’ll stay home and on my back 24/7, just waiting for you to get there and screw my brains out.”
Shoot. I just lost my train of thought.
Looking down, my comforter becomes the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. Anything to not have to look him in the eyes right now. I hate it, but I know I’d never be enough for him. This man is out of my league. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve known you for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with the same girl twice.” I peek up, and that damn grin is still there.
“Yeah, that didn’t work out so well for me now, did it?” He grabs my hand, stopping the assault on my comforter that’s currently taking place.
Oh crap, I know it’s coming. Verbal vomit is about to hit, and it’s not gonna be good. “So, what? You figure you’ll give this a try? I just happen to be the lucky girl who was in the right place at the right time . . . For what? Your first attempt at monogamy? Being a man whore didn’t work out so well, might as well try monogamy out with Sabrina. She can’t keep a boyfriend anyway, might as well get it out of my system with her. Way to make a girl feel special, Murph.” I rip my hand away from him and finally hold my head up.
Shit. I can see the hurt on his face.
Murphy moves to straighten but hits his head on the ceiling. Why did I loft my stupid bed? “Are you fucking kidding me? No. You’re insinuating that I’m what? Using you for an experiment? If I was going to ‘try something out with someone,’ I’d pick someone easy. And let me tell you something, Princess, you are the furthest fucking thing from easy.” His eyes run over me like I’m a stranger to him, and I want to cry.
He throws his legs over my bed and stands, grabbing his jeans. “I’d hope you’d know I’d never do that to you. We’ve only fucking known each other since you wore fucking pigtails to school every day of first fucking grade. And if you really think I’d do that, I think I should be leaving.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
How did we get here?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This is not what I wanted or what I meant to say. He’s pulling his jeans up now and grabbing his shirt off the floor.
No.
He slips his feet into his Nike’s. “For your fucking information, Sabrina, I’ve never been with a girl more than once because I’ve never been with anyone worth it. I thought maybe that had changed, but I can see I was cataclysmically fucking wrong.”
The door is slamming behind him before I get a chance to pull my head out of my ass and figure out how to save the morning.
Shit!
A few hours later, I’m sitting at a table covered in pristine white linens at the country club my parents have belonged to longer than I’ve been alive. I was ordered to attend brunch with my mother and little sister, Penelope, in yet another old building, filled with stuffy-ass kissers that all want a chance to talk to my mom.
I guess I’m a little pissy right now and am directing it at everyone else when I should only be mad at myself for my behavior.
Years of listening to my mother tell me to be careful around guys—because they all have an agenda and will want to use me to further that agenda—came back in a big way this morning. How could that amazing man who was lying in my bed actually want me? I’m nothing special. Even as I think the words, I picture the look of hurt on his face and want to cry.
I fucked up. All I want to do is find the words to apologize to Murphy. I don’t need to be sitting here, pretending to listen to whatever my mother is lecturing us about now. Dad is in DC this weekend, but Mom insisted I meet Penny and her because we need to discuss the schedule for the last big push of Dad’s campaign.
It’s the final six weeks before the election, and it always gets hairy around this time. Dad is running on a family-values platform. The image of the perfect family will apparently help him get more votes. On the outside, we look like that family. The reality is very different. My mother is a cold woman who treats her children like an extension of my father’s staff and sees no real value in us as individuals. My father is a pretty good dad, but his ambition runs neck and neck with his family for top billing. I played soccer and joined every possible club and activity through my life just to get me out of the house, and Penny has already started doing the same.
My mother is droning on about some fundraising function she was at last night, but I’m not paying any attention. She loves this: being a senator’s wife. I’m not sure if she loves my father, but she loves who she gets to be because of him. Her chestnut-brown hair is styled in an elegant chignon. The light grey sweater set
, piped in white with gorgeous white wide-legged pants she’s wearing cost more than most people make in a week. I do, however, wish I could steal the grey Mary-Jane Manolo Blahniks she has on today.
Great shoes.
Most of the women have stopped by to say hello like she’s the “Godfather” and they need to kiss the ring.
I wonder if this is what Bash feels like?
This entire brunch emphasizes to me how much I don’t want my mother’s life. It makes me physically ill to think of being as shallow or vapid as she is.
I want to be a power player, not married to one.
I want to be a kingmaker, not a king or queen.
Behind the scenes, quietly pulling the strings.
Someone else can be the public figure.
I want to find a candidate I believe in and be their chief of staff. Help take them from being candidate to congressman, senator, governor or more. I don’t want to be window dressing.
Penny kicks my leg under the table. It’s like looking in a mirror when I see my sister. She looks exactly like I did at her age. Long, gangly legs and knobby knees she hasn’t grown into yet. Long, thick dark hair and dark eyes. Wishing desperately she could do something to make our mother love her for her. Not just for what she can help her accomplish.
When I glance up, my mother fixes me with her glare. “Are you listening to me, Sabrina?” She’s well aware that I’ve tuned her out and is not happy about it.
Folding my hands in my lap, I straighten. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I was thinking about what I need to study when I get back to my room today. I have a big test tomorrow in my Media Usage in Campaign Strategies class.” That should buy me a little lenience.
Total lie, but I’ll chalk it up as something I mention next time I go to confession. It’s been a few months . . . I’m due.
“As I was saying . . .” My mother places her knife and fork on her nearly full plate. God forbid any of us actually eat more than a few bites of the food we’re served. She pushes the plate away, before continuing, “There is a photo op I will need you for Thursday night in the city. I’ve switched stylists again, and the new one, Carolina, will have everything ready for you. I need you to stop by Tuesday morning for the fitting.”
My head jerks back to her. “Mom, I have class until ten on Tuesday and then again at twelve thirty.”
“Perfect. You can run home in between.” She signals the waiter.
Just what I want to spend my free time doing. I need to find time to talk to Murphy, not to run home and get fitted for clothes I’d never pick myself.
Grabbing her black AMEX out of her wallet, she hands it to the waiter, never once making eye contact. “Your father’s big fundraiser is in a few weeks, and I expect you to be there. And if you could manage to bring a suitable plus one, that would be best, dear. We can’t have the voters thinking you’re a lesbian.” Picking up her phone, she starts scrolling through messages like she didn’t just say that to her daughter.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“No, Mother, we can’t have that.” If she can hear the sarcasm in my tone, she doesn’t acknowledge it. But Penny and I smile at each other.
“Am I going to the fundraiser this year, Mom?” Penny is eleven and doesn’t have to attend most of the functions I do.
Never looking up from her phone, she answers, “No, Penelope. You will be staying home with Nanny for the night.”
We’ve had the same nanny living with our family now since Penny was six, and my mother refuses to call her by her name, Margaret. She insists on referring to her as Nanny. Margaret is a seventy-year-old sweetheart. She’s kind and comforting. She likes to bake cookies and sneaks them to us when my parents aren’t around to harass us about watching what we’re eating.
She hugged me the first time I laid in bed crying over a boy, gave me my first sex talk, and took me to buy a box of condoms when she realized I was having sex with my first boyfriend. I can still hear her. “Now, Sabrina, if you think you’re mature enough to be having sex, you have to be mature enough to be responsible.”
I was mortified. Scared to death someone would see me buying condoms. At my very next doctor’s appointment, I got the birth control shot.
My mother claps her hands together gently and smiles. “Never forget, girls. Your father would not win his elections if it weren’t for us.”
Yup. Because that’s what I want to hear right now.
Perfect thing to lay on your daughters’ shoulders.
She stands and motions for my sister. “Come along, Penelope. We have to leave now if I am to make my next appointment.” She turns to me and air kisses each cheek. “Goodbye Sabrina. Please do something with your hair before the next time I see you.”
With that parting comment, she’s gone, and I’m left wondering if my relationship with my mother might have played a part in my freak-out this morning. Am I ever going to feel like I’m enough? I’ve never seen an especially healthy relationship in my life. The few boys I dated in high school were just that—boys. They weren’t anything special and definitely weren’t serious. There was no fear of trusting them with my heart.
If the people who are supposed to love you can hurt you continuously, what can the people you choose to let in do to your heart?
15
Sabrina
An hour later, I’m pulling up to Kroydon Manor, the nineteenth-century farmhouse-turned-mansion my best friend, Chloe Ryan, calls home. Her mother’s family were the original Kroydons a few hundred years ago. Chloe’s cherry-red Fiat is parked in the driveway, so my fingers are crossed that she’s home. I probably should have texted.
Mrs. Ryan opens the door just as I knock. She’s dressed much like my mother was. I’ve got to get out of Kroydon Hills before I turn into a Stepford wife. “I thought that was you I saw pull up, Sabrina. How are you doing? How is college life treating you?” She hugs me, which is a little awkward.
She never used to hug me, but ever since Brady got hurt last year while Mr. and Mrs. Ryan were in London, they’ve both made more of an effort to be present for their kids. Somehow that’s translated to me getting hugged when she sees me. I think it’s nice, but Chloe misses the freedom she used to have before her mother started vying for Mom of the Year.
“It’s treating me pretty well, Mrs. Ryan.”
“That’s wonderful.” Stepping back, she releases me. “Chloe’s in her room. You can go on up, darling.”
“Thank you.”
As I head up the stairs, I hear her say, “Tell your dad he has our votes.” Not surprising. Mrs. Ryan’s parents, the Kroydons, practically single-handedly fund my dad’s campaign each term. Walking down the hall, I knock on Chloe’s door, but she doesn’t answer. I hate just walking in. Most of the time, she doesn’t hear me because she has her noise-canceling headphones on. But once, I walked in on her flicking the bean, and that’s not a scene I want to repeat. Knocking obnoxiously loud, I crack her door open and slide one of my ballet flats off to throw in the room. Without looking, I throw it toward where I know her bed is and then hear a yelp.
“What the fuck?” Good to know that worked.
“Hey, you decent in there?” I hear her jump from the bed and open the door.
She’s wearing black leggings with a white “Save the Ewoks, Protect the Forest” t-shirt. Her purple hair is in two messy buns, reminding me of a cool Princess Leia. “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?” She hands me back my shoe.
“Nope.” We hug, and Chloe leads me into her room. The walls are a beautiful pale blue color with long black and white chevron silk drapes framing her windows. She plops down on her bed, and I kick my other shoe off and sit in the fuzzy bright teal chair she has in the corner. I’ve always loved this chair. It’s soft, comfy and just my size. “I’m so glad you’re home. I need to talk, but I need you not to yell at me.”
“No promises there, chick. I’m fucking stuck home while everyone else goes to the Kings game tonight.” She strangles her
pillow. “My mom isn’t letting me go because it’s an eight o’clock game on a school night. Annabelle is taking Tommy, who’s ten years old, and I can’t go. How does that work?” Slamming the pillow back down, she looks at me. “I can’t take much more of the Stepford mom bullshit. It’s been a year, Brina, And the only time I have any freedom is when I sleep at Brady’s. What am I gonna do?”
I hold back my laugh. I love that I just mentally called our moms Stepford wives, and now she’s saying the same thing. There’s a reason this girl is my ride or die. Not that I’d ever get on a motorcycle or in a crazy car chase, but still . . . Ride or Die. “I love you, Chloe, but I’m having my own major meltdown right now, and I don’t think I’m capable of helping you with yours until I figure out mine.” I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, resting my chin on top.
Her eyes become the size of saucers, and she shakes her head. My bestie is nothing if not dramatic. “Holy shit. You never have a freak-out. Wait, you didn’t actually block off time in your agenda for a freak-out, did you? Cause that’s bad, even for you, Brina.”
My head pops up. “What do you mean, ‘even for me’?”
“You’re the most organized person I know. You’re so controlled and anal about your schedule, commitments, and responsibilities I’ve always wondered if you schedule time in your daily calendar to shower.”
Grabbing the black velvet pillow I’m sitting on, I throw it at her. “Bitch.”
“Whore.”
This is us. She’s the only person I can be this crazy person with, and I love her for it. I don’t actually write shower in my daily agenda, but you bet your sweet tush I know precisely how much time I need to get ready every day. “Anyway, can we please, please, please talk about me right now and how I screwed up?” I ignore the desperate pleading I hear in my voice.
More Than A Game (The Kings of Kroydon Hills Book 2) Page 8