“Blake, a word, please.” Glancing over Rhett’s shoulder, I see my father standing there, red faced. I know him well enough to know that he’s about two point five seconds away from going postal. Of course, it’s all a load of shit. He flaps and huffs, but bottom line, he has no idea how to handle me and don’t I just love to test him on that.
My father is a handsome man, distinguished I suppose you could say. As always, his tux is immaculate, his bow tie perfectly tied by my mother. He looks the part, but the truth is, he’s merely a puppet. They say that behind every powerful man is a powerful woman. Never has this been truer than with my mother. Arabella McQueen is a force that few will dare take on, and least of all, my father. I’ve learnt over the years that every move he makes has been carefully planned and orchestrated by her. Not least of all, the way he handles me. Personally, I prefer to just deal with the she bitch herself, cut out the middle man. I do so love to see him flounder, though.
“Rhett, this is my father, Miles McQueen. Daddy, this is Rhett Torres.”
Rhett releases me, but not before flashing me a wink. He turns to my father and holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I smile as my father shakes Rhett’s hand. This is so perfect.
“You too.”
Ah, the ball ache that is social graces and ever watching eyes. My father has already expressed his distaste for Rhett, and yet he will sit here and kiss the ring, because Rhett, no matter what he has come from, has money. Money comes with contacts and influence, and the number one rule of the business world is never piss anyone off because you never know who you might need or when. Rhett, it would seem, possesses all these things.
Yeah, okay, so I Google stalked. I had to. I needed to know what I was dealing with, after all, Rhett Torres was enough to make my estranged father pick up the phone just to warn me off him. Some opportunities are just too good to pass up. Nothing piques my interest quite like my parents feigned concern for my well-being.
My father turns away, and I follow, like the good little daughter I am. He walks out of the main room and into a quiet hallway before turning to face me.
Now I’m closer to him he looks older, more worn than he used to. Living with my mother will do that to a guy.
“So, let me guess…Mother isn’t happy about Rhett?”
“Why would you bring him here?” he asks through clenched teeth. I haven’t laid eyes on my father in over a year and this is his primary concern…Rhett. Touching.
“I didn’t. He was already coming. He accompanied me, seeing as we’re friends.” I smile. “Isn’t that nice of him?”
He pulls at his bow tie, trying to loosen it. “Blake, this man will ruin you.”
I laugh and pat down the lapels of his jacket. “Oh, Daddy, I think that ship has sailed, don’t you? I’d say I was ruined ever since the first time The Sun printed that picture of me taking a body shot out of that girls cleavage.” He opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand. “Or maybe the time I was pictured dancing topless on the bar in that strip joint, and definitely the time I had an ‘affair’ with Russell Brand.” I never did that, but you know, I’m never one to downplay a scandal.
“He’s a criminal,” he hisses. “There’s a difference between acting out and being associated with the likes of him.”
“Harsh, Daddy. I thought you were a man of the people. You shouldn’t judge.”
“He will soil your reputation forever,” he shouts, before swiping a hand over his mouth.
“And yours.”
“I cannot have my daughter associated with criminals. This will cripple my campaign.” He almost sounds like he’s pleading a little.
I smile. “What a shame.”
I walk away and go back to the party, leaving him huffing and puffing and reminiscing on how the hell he raised such a letdown child. Rhett is waiting and hands me a glass of champagne before swiping a strand of hair off my face.
“Your father really hates me,” he says.
I take a gulp of the champagne and smile. “I would say loathes.”
He moves closer to me and our eyes lock. “Is that what you’re into Duchess? Fucking guys that daddy disapproves of?” His voice is so deep and rough it makes my skin heat. Dangerous, he’s so dangerous. A girl could easily lose her morals to Rhett Torres, and seeing as I have no morals, that’s saying something. His lips inch closer until they’re so close, so painfully close.
“He disapproves of everyone.” I smirk and cock an eyebrow. “But I would say you take the prize, so…”
He skims his lips across my cheek until they’re at my ear. “So, you owe me.” Yes, I do.
He swipes his thumb over my bottom lip. “I have to speak to someone quickly, but meet me in ten minutes.” He places a plastic card into my hand—a room key for the hotel. “Room 612.” And then he walks away without a word.
Well, don’t ever let it be said that Blake McQueen doesn’t pay her debts.
I swipe the key across the door and it clicks open. Inside, it’s dark and silent, and I assume Rhett isn’t here yet. It’s pitch black, so I’m fumbling for the light switch when an arm snakes around my waist. I let out a breathless squeak.
“Shit,” I gasp.
His weight hits my back, pressing me up against the door. Fisting my hair, he yanks my head to the side. That thrill of fear spikes my adrenaline, making my heart hammer against my ribs until all I can hear is my own pulse thrumming desperately in my ears. His hot breath caresses the side of my neck and my skin breaks out in goose bumps, hoping, anticipating.
I buck against him. “Patience,” he says with a throaty chuckle.
I slam my palm against the door. “Fuck off.”
Spinning me around, he slams his hand around my throat, pressing my back into the wood. “That’s not nice, Duchess,” he purrs against my lips.
I slide my palms over his chest and inside the collar of his shirt, yanking it open. The buttons scatter like rain drops against the wall. There’s a beat of silence, like the calm before the storm, and then his lips are on mine, his fingers digging into my thighs as he lifts me, sliding between my legs with enough force that the stitching of my dress pops apart. Every hard, sculpted part of him pushes against me as his teeth scrape over my throat. I throw my head back and drag my nails down his bare chest, making him hiss as he tears me away from the door.
The next thing I know, my back hits a mattress and my legs are wrenched apart before his lips hit the inside of my thigh. My underwear is ripped away, and then his mouth is on my pussy, his hot tongue lashing my clit until I’m writhing on the bed. His arm slams over my hips, pinning me down. Fisting the sheets, I scream as a violent tremor rips through me. This need, this rabid desperation claws at me until words are falling from my lips in a jumbled plea and I’m begging him to fuck me.
And just when I’m sure I can take no more, he leaves me and I lay here, my breathing too loud, my heart beating so hard that I’m sure he must be able to hear it. He messes me up completely. There’s something about him that’s just primal, animalistic, without an ounce of control to be seen. He makes me forget about anything that isn’t him, his hands, his tongue, his cock.
Seconds pass before his fingers wrap around my ankles and he yanks me down the bed until my legs are hanging off the end. I’m flipped over so violently that it knocks the breath out of me. The tattered lace of my dress is shoved up until it pools around my waist, and then he slowly drags his finger tips over my pussy. Dropping my head forward, I bite my lip to stifle a moan. I have never been this desperate for a man’s cock. Never.
Gripping my hips, he pulls me up until my knees are on the mattress and my arse is in the air. His thighs brush against the back of mine before I feel his cock sliding against me. Back and forth he teases me, dragging his cock over my pussy before he slides inside me. So good, he feels so fucking good. He leisurely pulls out and thrusts back in slowly, torturously. My entire body is shaking with desperation, with the need for more.
“H
arder, fuck me harder!” I beg.
He growls as he slams inside me so hard that I’m jolted up the bed. My arms give way until I’m braced on my elbows, my face buried in the duvet as he drives into me. His cock pounds into me over and over. My pussy is trembling around him, teetering on the brink, and then, his fingers slowly wind around my neck, pulling me upright until my back is pressed to his chest. His grip around my throat tightens and my pulse quickens, my lungs faltering at the promise, the possibility, the danger, because that’s what Rhett is, a walking threat, the element of danger that puts a rush of adrenaline in my veins.
His teeth nip at my earlobe as he groans in my ear and slides a hand down my body.
“Come for me, Duchess,” he growls, pinching my clit and slamming deep inside me. My scream is cut off by his vice grip on my neck. My vision dips and I literally see stars as my entire body trembles with wave after wave of pleasure. Rhett hisses dirty words in my ear the entire time, pumping his cock inside me.
When he’s done, he tosses me on the bed like a used toy and I smile.
He goes straight into the bathroom and I hear the shower turn on. As soon as my legs stop shaking, I get up and shrug off the remains of my destroyed dress. I manage to find one of his shirts and slip it on. Checking my reflection in the mirror, I wipe the make up from under my eyes, fluff my hair a little, and slap on a fresh coat of lipstick. He’s still not out of the shower, but I’m not a small talk kind of girl. That said, he is hands down the best fuck I’ve ever had. He’s a unicorn man. You know, mythical, famed, too good to be true…the holy grail of men that can make you lose your shit with a look. That allows for some exceptions, and believe me, I’ve already allowed him many, but one more…Taking the lipstick, I scrawl my number over the glass before pressing my lips to it, leaving a kiss mark. Something to remember me by. And then I pick up my bag and leave.
The next morning my phone is going nuts. Every gossip magazine, journalist, blogger— anyone who is anyone wants an interview, and a couple are even offering big money for exclusive photos of Rhett and me. You’ve got to love the social scene. One night at a party with a guy I barely even know and we’re apparently the new ‘it’ couple. My father’s publicist is flipping her shit, which means my dad has crawled up her arsehole for letting this get out. It’s perfect.
I stare at the picture of us kissing that is absolutely everywhere. It’s the perfect amount of dirty with an edge of ‘they’re clearly about to fuck each other’s brains out’.
Rhett screams bad, even in his tux, and it makes him so damn hot. The way he grips the back of my neck, my fingers clawing at his face like I can’t get close enough…I can practically feel the chemistry just looking at it.
I’m not the kind of girl to get attached. It’s not my style. So, what happens when you meet this sacred man that makes you want to strip naked, climb him like a tree and high five his face with your vagina? You fuck him of course, but I already did that, and I’m still thinking about him. I see, I want, I fuck. Then I’m usually done. This…this—whatever, is messing with my mojo because for the first time in my life, I have the urge to call a guy.
I stare at my phone, fighting with myself. I have never called a fucking bloke in my life. What would I even say? Hey, you’re really hot and I’ve decided I want to fuck you because you’re the unicorn man. Fuck me.
Nope, nope, nope. He has my number, he can call, and if he doesn’t then that’s good, right? Gah! I’m Blake McQueen. I don’t get weird about guys or phone calls. What is wrong with me? I throw the phone across my bed like it’s a spider and flop back on the pillows.
That’s it, I am locking myself in my room for the entire day. Me, my vibrator, and James Deen have a date.
16
Blake
There’s a bang on the door and I drag my arse off the sofa to answer it. Opening the door, I frown when I see Rhett standing there holding a pizza box and a pack of beer. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt that I swear is a size too small, I mean, really? He looks like he’s about to rip out of it. I stare at his broad chest straining against the material.
He clears his throat and I slowly lift my eyes to his face. An amused smirk pulls at his lips. “You answer the door like that often?”
I glance down at my hoody, underwear and knee high socks.
“Do you randomly turn up on people’s doorsteps often?” I ask.
“You left your number. Let’s not pretend that wasn’t an invitation.”
“To call…”
“I’m more of a take action kind of guy. Besides, I brought pizza.” He holds up the pizza box and the bottles of beer.
“Uh, is this some kind of date?” He drops his eyes to the ground, fighting a smile. “Because I’m not a girl you date.”
“No. You’re not. It’s just pizza and a beer with a hot girl.” Flattery will get you everywhere.
The pizza smells amazing. “Fine, but only because you have pizza.” And I might be happy to see him. God, why is that? He’s hot. That has to be it. I’m always happy to see a hot man.
I open the door wider and he steps through, pressing way closer than necessary as he moves past. “You sure that’s all it is, Duchess?” he says, lowering his voice.
I shrug. “You’re pretty to look at.”
He smiles, shaking his head as he walks into the apartment. I take the beers from him and put two in the fridge before searching for a bottle opener.
“Wow, you just leave that there with the dishes, huh?” I follow his gaze to my vibrator which I totally forgot was on the draining board. Our eyes meet and there’s an awkward moment before I just shrug. It’s not like I can pretend it’s anything other than what it is.
“It needed cleaning,” I tell him.
He cocks a brow. “Overuse?”
I find a bottle opener and pop the top off a beer. “Sometimes a girl has to take matters into her own hands.”
“You have my number...”
I roll my eyes and pick up the pizza box, walking around the breakfast bar and into the living area. Little does he know it’s having his fucking number that has pushed me to an entire day of self-love and porn. I drop onto the sofa, folding my legs underneath me and setting the pizza on the coffee table.
Taking a seat on the sofa next to me, he lifts the beer to his lips. He swallows heavily and then swipes his tongue across his bottom lip. I have come at least four times today, and yet, just a flash of his tongue makes me feel like a whore in a nunnery.
“What are we watching?” he asks, nodding towards the TV, the screen paused on the opening credits.
“Legend. Tom Hardy as a hot cockney gangster. Winning.”
He takes a bite of pizza, and I take that as an okay—not that he has a choice. Me and Tom had a date before he interrupted, though the beer and pizza probably make up for it.
“So the criminal thing does it for you?” he asks when the film starts.
“Shh.” I hiss. “Don’t be a talker. No one likes a talker.”
He chuckles and falls into silence again.
I actually have a good time with Rhett…fully clothed as well. Who knew?
We watch the film, we drink, we talk about nothing of any consequence, we make out like sixteen-year olds at prom, and eventually, I fall asleep on him while watching Lockstock. Apparently, I like cockney gangsters. Rhett thinks I have an unhealthy obsession and that he has the wrong accent. Jesus, if he were cockney, my ovaries would fall out.
I almost wake up when he carries me to bed, and its kind of sweet. Wait, did I actually just think that?
I’m groggy and incoherent as he places a kiss on my forehead and leaves. He doesn’t try to have sex with me, makes no move to stay, and doesn’t that make this confusing because sex is sex. I know sex. This is unchartered ground.
17
Blake
One week and two ‘dates’ later…
I laugh as I roll around on the fur rug, stroking my fingers through the fluffiness. My phone ring
s and I fumble for it, squinting at the screen and trying to force my eyes to focus.
“Hello.” My tongue feels too thick for my mouth, and talking is just—it’s effort.
“B, where are you?” Milly asks, giggling.
I shrug. “Um...” I lift my head and glance around what looks like a bedroom. “There’s a bed,” I slur.
She sighs and I hear her talk to someone else. “A bedroom. Blake, if I find you choking on some guys dick…” The only dick I want to choke on is Rhett’s.
“I’m not.”
Dropping the phone on the floor, I roll over and press my forehead into the fluffy rug, trying to stop the room from spinning. I don’t know how long I’m there, but the door opens and someone comes in. I expect Felix because he always finds me, but it’s not Felix.
“Hey, sweetheart.” The guy looms over me, looking down at me with a smile on his face. I can’t make out his features silhouetted by the light from the door. “What are you doing?” he asks.
I glance down. “Stroking a rug apparently.”
“You want to stroke something else?” He laughs.
I push up onto my hands and knees and stagger to my feet. The room pitches and spins in a swirl of colour. I close my eyes for a second and reopen them. The guy takes a step towards me and I hold up my hand.
“I’m drunk, not blind.” Well…my vision isn’t exactly fucking straight. I close one eye. Okay, yeah, he’s unattractive.
He closes in on me, pressing me against the wall and groping at my tits. “You’re a bitch,” he hisses. Ugh! Men and their egos. He tries to slide a hand inside my dress, and I sigh, jabbing two fingers into his throat. He coughs and staggers away, ripping the strap on my shoulder as he does.
“No.” I frown. “I’m Blake McQueen, you fucking pervert.” He leans back against the wall, trying to catch his breath as I collect my clutch and phone from the floor.
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