by Warren, Skye
“My money.” The word comes out mocking. “I’m not what you call a big spender. Don’t attend the society galas and whatever the fuck. That’s what you like, isn’t it, June? The glitz and the glamour.”
It’s the only life I know, but I don’t tell him that. “Then what do you buy?”
His hand still waits for me, patient to a fault. He must know I don’t have a choice. He made me come up against the wall. I couldn’t control that, but taking his hand? Stepping into his truck? That decision will have to be mine.
He wants me to participate in my own humiliation.
He leans close, near enough I can see the deep brown of his eyes even in the clear sunlight. “Every so often there’s something I want, and then I have a nice fat bank account to make sure I can have it.”
My skin flushes hot with awareness. “I’m not for sale.”
“Aren’t you?” His laugh runs down my spine. “Then walk back into the house. No one’s going to stop you. Tell your Daddy that you aren’t going to fuck me, that he can find some other way to pay back all that money he owes. I’d love to watch the beautiful June Li tell her Daddy to go fuck himself.”
The temptation beats through my veins, thrums in my ears. It’s a siren song, the desire to escape from Asher’s dark promise. Except the safety of this house is an illusion. Papa isn’t going to protect me. He would not have sold me if there was any other choice; that much I believe.
The good daughter. That’s me.
I place my hand in Asher’s, and he lifts me carefully into the seat. When I’m settled on the wide leather bench, the door slams shut, closing me in. I keep my gaze straight ahead as the truck rumbles to a start. Where are we going? I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
We barely hit the freeway when he lets out a low laugh.
I swallow hard. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing’s funny, beautiful. I’m laughing for the pure fucking joy of it.”
It hits me then, as we’re barreling away from my house at eighty miles per hour—how permanent this is. Even if I’m back in my bedroom tomorrow or the night after that, or whenever Asher decides to bring me back, I won’t be the same. This night is going to change me.
It’s already changing me. There’s a fury inside me that wasn’t there this morning. Even a few hours ago I was content to be the good daughter. To do as I was told. Now I’m mad.
“You’re an asshole,” I say, almost shaking with the force of my emotion. “You’re worse than that. You’re a coward, because if you were really as strong as you act you wouldn’t need to make me feel small.”
He somehow makes the hard, unforgiving bench of the truck look like the most comfortable seat in the world. He makes it look like a throne, reclining with his hand over the back, blunt fingers toying with a piece of my hair. I have to work to ignore the heat of his fingers near my shoulder. I don’t want to feel him, and I sure as hell don’t want to take comfort from him.
“Do you feel small, June?” he asks, his voice mild. “Is that how I make you feel?”
Only when he asks the question do I realize it’s the opposite. I’ve spent so long fitting into the mold of the good daughter, making myself quiet and demure enough for the only daughter of the Li family. A flame made steady so that my glow will not offend.
Asher Cook turns me into a wildfire. I’m ready to consume him.
“Don’t lie to me,” I say. “You enjoyed that little show back there.”
“Oh, I won’t pretend that I didn’t. And I’m going to enjoy a show right now. Pull your dress up, beautiful. And take those panties off. I want to feel what I’m paying for.”
His crude words are like gasoline on the fire. “Fuck you.”
A tsk sound. “Such language.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re running out of time. I can turn the car around and drop you off in front of Daddy’s mansion. I wonder how long it will be before a foreclosure sign goes up on that nice front lawn?”
Bile rises in my throat. I don’t want to disgrace the Li family by becoming this man’s whore, but it will be worse if we lose the house and the business. Oh God.
Slowly I pull the black silk of my dress up my thighs.
Asher’s voice breaks through my uncertainty. “Ten… nine… eight… seven…”
I yank the hem up, exposing my thighs. It’s the same as wearing a swimsuit, at least that’s what I tell myself when he glances down at my legs. I reach up beneath the fabric to push my panties down. It’s awkward trying to move in this space, trying to keep myself covered. I clench my panties in a fist, trying to ignore how damp they feel. Asher Cook made me come. He drew the evidence of that on my chest. Now he holds out his hand, as patient as he did before I got into the truck.
My throat feels tight. Without a word I place my panties on his palm.
He brings the fabric to his nose and breaths in deep. “Christ, that’s good. Your cunt tastes amazing, beautiful? You ever taste yourself when you explore down there at night?”
The flush that spreads across my cheeks could light a match. No one is supposed to know what I do at night. How does this man know? “No,” I whisper.
“We’re gonna fix that,” he says, his voice thick with lust. “You reach down and touch yourself now.”
I shove my hand between my legs, hard enough that it doesn’t feel good. He can’t make me feel good, especially when he’s not even touching me. He’s driving for Christ’s sake.
“Now, don’t be rough with that little pussy. That’s my job. Right now you just want to find your clit. You know where that is? Where it feels good, beautiful. Where it feels sharp and right and good.”
My fingers obey him even though my mind doesn’t want to. I rest my forefinger on my clit, closing my eyes at the quiet relief. “This isn’t good,” I say, but that’s a lie.
“Of course it is,” he says, casual as you please. The only sign that he’s moved by what’s happening is the bulge in his jeans. He doesn’t acknowledge his own arousal except to tighten his fist on the steering wheel. “You’re gonna have to endure this no matter what. Might as well get a little pleasure out of it. Now you’re going to play with that clit of yours while I tell you a story.”
“I don’t want to hear a story.”
He gives me a slow smile. “You’re right. It would be much more interesting to hear you tell the story. I’ll start it for you. One day you went to visit your daddy at one of his shopping centers while it was still under construction…. Don’t ignore your clit, beautiful. Make little circles.”
I glare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you want me to show you?” He reaches across the console, and I make a high-pitch sound of protest. He laughs softly. “Then touch yourself.”
I move my finger slow and crude, not like I would if I were in bed alone. This isn’t really for my own pleasure, my hand between my legs. It’s for his. “I meant the shopping center.”
“Right, the story you’re telling me. About how you got out of the town car and walked up the steps, not knowing that the men were on shift change. They started whooping and hollering at you soon as they saw you in that plaid private school uniform, didn’t they? Gave you an earful.”
My mind flashes to that day, so many years ago. I can smell diesel in the air, feel the overbright glint of sunlight off the exposed metal beams. Looking fine, sweetheart. You need directions? I can show you were to go. Look at that chest. Flat as a board. Bet your nips are bright pink though.
A thrill of fear ran down my spine in that moment. The same fear I feel now in the truck. Blood races through my veins. My mouth opens on a graceless pant. That afternoon I had kept running down the hallway until I left them behind. This time there’s nowhere to run.
Asher’s eyelids look heavy now, his expression hard. “That’s right, beautiful. You remember.”
Only then do I realize that I’m touching myself harder, faste
r, worrying my clit between my forefinger and middle finger, pressing together to send sparks of pleasure through my body. “Were you one of them?” I say, my voice thready.
“You could say that. I was coming up the stairs after you, planning on telling you that you weren’t allowed in the construction site without a hardhat. Safety precautions. Then I heard the men hassling you, talking about your teenaged body.”
Oh God. I’m working myself harder now, getting hot when I shouldn’t be, shouldn’t be. My hips are moving against the stiff leather. I remember how warm I’d felt between my legs. “I never saw you.”
“I was the foreman, even back then. I didn’t mind the men giving a beautiful woman a whistle, letting her know she’s appreciated, no matter how rude it is. But I wasn’t going to let them give shit to an underaged girl. Not on my watch. Made it up the stairs and laid Jimmy DeLuca flat on his back.”
My cheeks are probably red as a fire hydrant. “Is he the one who said—?”
“He’s the one who said your pussy was probably tight enough to bend steel if he tried to shove some inside of you. Is that what you meant?”
“Oh God,” I whisper, slipping my forefinger lower, to where liquid desire pools at my sex. I spread it over my pussy lips, rocking my hips against the slippery friction.
“Broke his nose,” Asher says, his voice conversational. “And the other guys backed off real quick. Then I went after you. Figured you’d be upset. Might find you crying in the ladies room.”
Every muscle in my body locks up, because I know exactly what I did in that bathroom as a seventeen year old in a half-built shopping mall. “You didn’t find me,” I say, desperately, needing it to be true.
“Those little sounds you were making. I knew you weren’t crying.” It’s a small comfort that his expression borders on pain, his gaze flicking to me before he returns it to the road. The truck barrels down the freeway, same way my body rushes toward climax. “What were you doing, June?”
“I can’t,” I whisper, my hand pressed hard between my legs, my eyes squeezed shut.
“You wanted to tell the story,” he says, his voice low and coaxing.
“No—I can’t.” My fingers can’t find purchase in my slick and swollen sex. There’s not enough friction, not enough time, not enough humiliation in realizing he was there. “You saw me?”
“If I would have gone inside I could have made you do anything. And if one of those rough fuckers had heard you? They might have done that.”
The thought is like a thousand pounds of dynamite. His large body across the cab of the truck, the scent of him, the strength of it, is the match. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I don’t touch underage girls. I went back into the hallway and made sure no one else came in. You finished finger fucking yourself and then washed your hands like a good little girl. When you walked out you had no idea I was around the corner.”
I’m so close it almost hurts. That’s how it feels not to come right now—painful.
“I think you would have liked it if I’d gone in, though. Wouldn’t you?”
“No,” I whisper, but it’s a lie. The pulse beating in my sex right now proves that much. This whole story has turned me on beyond bearing. Being trapped in this truck, heading to God knows where makes me burn.
“You would have let me do anything to your body. The same way you’re going to now.”
“No.”
He looks directly at me, his eyes so dark they’re almost black. “Come for me, beautiful. Let me see.”
My body is a traitor. It comes in a matter of seconds, fingers digging into skin, muscles clenching hard, a harsh cry escaping my lips. Pleasure arcs through me, so fast and hard it’s like being struck by lightning. It wrenches my body again and again, and the whole time I can’t take my eyes away from Asher’s.
When the last pulse runs through me, my hand falls away from my sex. My whole body falls against the hard door, not feeling any pain. Not feeling anything except the aftershocks.
Something seems to echo in the cab of the truck. A word. A scream?
Did I possibly sob his name as I climaxed?
God, I did. My throat is still sore from how loud I cried for him. I’m so embarrassed I could melt into a puddle on his warm leather. It’s already damp from my arousal. I wish I could pool into liquid and not have to face him, but I remain stalwartly solid, my limbs heavy but my mind fully aware.
Asher. I can only imagine the smug look on his hard face. I can only imagine it until I look over… only, he doesn’t look smug. His cheekbones are slashes against the sunlight. His eyebrows notched in pain. He looks like a man pushed to the edge of his limits, and then pushed one inch farther.
Two hours ago I was getting ready for the gala tonight. I never could have imagined ending up in this truck. Having my own arousal spread across my fingertips.
And I never could have imagined feeling concern for the man who made me this way.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, his voice gruff.
The bulge in his jeans has not gone down. The denim stretches taut. I don’t know what he looks like under there, not really. Late-night browsing on Tumblr has not prepared me for this truck.
“Li Industries has been bleeding money for six months, maybe more.”
My gaze snaps to his face, but he’s looking at the road. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, beautiful. Worse. It’s supposed to make you feel worse, knowing that your daddy could have prevented this. The deal we made for your body? That was last fucking week.”
He knew for a week? “You’re lying.”
One broad shoulder lifts. “Halfway expected you to be barricaded in your bedroom when I showed up tonight. Maybe you’d be armed. Instead you came running down the stairs wearing that.”
I look down, forced to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the designer dress. There was probably never any gala. It was something Daddy told me so I would get ready without having to confess the truth. He let me be surprised because he was too ashamed to tell me.
For the first time in this horrible night tears prick the backs of my eyes. I clench my jaw to make sure no sound comes out. I want to yell, to shout that it’s unfair, but I’m too much of a good daughter to do that. And my father knew that about me. He was counting on it.
I close my eyes against the burn. It’s a losing battle. Tears singe my cheeks.
A hand covers mine, squeezing gently. Enough that I feel comforted from a man I should know better than to trust. Everything is upside down. My father has abandoned me. Asher Cook consoles me. I don’t know which way is up anymore, but I know one thing—the night isn’t over yet.
CHAPTER THREE
Cherry blossom season lasts a month, from the time the first to the last tree blooms. Each individual tree only flowers for a week.
I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up draped over Asher Cook’s body. I push myself up, palms against his chest, unable to ignore the hard shift of muscle beneath his soft white T-shirt.
We’re not well matched, him and I. He’s wearing jeans and boots. I’m in a limited-edition Gucci evening gown and low-heeled sandals I slipped on as we walked out the front door.
He’s made from muscle on top of muscle.
I’m slender and shaking.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, determined not to appear weak. “Where are we?”
He flips the key in the ignition. “My house.”
That’s enough to snap me awake. If I would have pictured Asher Cook’s house… I’m not sure I could have. He seems like he’d be at home among concrete and steel. Maybe some bricks in the background, stacked halfway up.
He fits into construction so well that it’s strange to imagine him somewhere fully built. Maybe I would have guessed someplace cheap, like a trailer park. I didn’t think of myself as a snob, but as I look at the rambling Tudor style home with ivy curling up the side, I�
�m forced to confront my own preconceived notions. This man has money—and what’s more, he has taste.
The house looks like something out of a magazine with its timber frame and diamond-patterned windows. Sunrays fold over the thatched roof, orange and purple and red, a bittersweet farewell.
Asher seems inured to the romance of the sunset. He acts brusque when he crosses the front of the truck and opens my door, business-like as he helps me down. Almost impatient as he leads me into the house, as if he regrets having me here.
That suspicion is confirmed when he hurries me through the darkened foyer and up shadowed stairs. A small room near the end of the hallway contains only a bed, its white lace coverlet such a sharp contrast to the man standing in front of me. “You’ll sleep here,” he says, his expression impassive.
There’s a finality to his tone, as if he’s saying goodnight.
It’s strange to feel disappointed that he isn’t going to have sex with me. My body still hums with the memory of his words, the frantic way that I rubbed myself while he watched.
“Is that… it?” I say, hoping I hide my dismay.
He reaches out a hand, fingertips soft against my temple, and I can’t help but jump. “You’re too busy being afraid of me to enjoy this, and I do plan on enjoying you, June.”
There’s a knot in my throat. It’s hard to swallow around it. “Oh.”
“I don’t suppose a little goodnight kiss would hurt, would it?”
The question doesn’t seem to need an answer. Not when his head lowers, blocking out the faint light of the moon. Not when his lips brush mine. Time slows down, so I can feel his soft breath against my lips, more gentle than a man his size has any right to be. I can feel the cushion of his lower lip. I let myself sink into him, without guilt or doubt. For this moment I push away the reason I’m in his house.
There’s only his silent request—let me in, open for me. And my acquiescence, parting my lips. Pleasure gives way to a soft moan. His. Mine. There’s surprise, that it could be like this. Chemistry? We have chemistry, but that’s only electrons and protons.