Page 36 of His Keepsake

He blew out a breath. “You should leave and forget this.”

“That bad?”

“What did you tell her? Names? Mine or yours? Where the house is?”

Grayson didn’t know about my arrest three years ago. Even if I had been freed without charge, I had decided it was a part of me he didn’t need to see.

I’d had an inkling this was off. Had Grayson finally done something criminal?

“I told her my first name.” I frowned. “Nothing much else. She said it was CNC.”

“Go home. Forget about this. After a week, I’m done with her.”

“Huh.” The indecisive sound was my best answer, so far. He stared at me.

“Either leave, or I’m going to keep talking.”

That metaphorical devil was luring me again. The bastard. If only he would quit sitting on my shoulder.

Lack of knowledge and denial was what Grayson aimed for. If asked, I could say I didn’t have any clue this was illegal. That was his train of thought.

So this was a crime.

I had told her my name. I should walk away.

I rubbed my mouth, pressed the side of my finger between my teeth, elbow resting on my other hand while I pretended to think it through. “Okay.”

Everything was in my pocket, keys and so on. I hadn’t left anything in the house. Except for my come in her. After a week that would be surely gone? My DNA in his house would mean nothing anyway…

What was I thinking? Grayson was never going to kill her.

What was he doing?

“I get it, though. Don’t dig a hole for yourself.”

He nodded.

Or one for her.

“Damn though, she is hot, beautiful…perfect for training, or ruining. With both of us—” My brain went spinning off into kinky depravity, until I reined it in.

I turned from him and walked to the end of the patio, headed around the side of the house, as if by not walking through it I could absolve myself from his sin.

My sins? Those I fully embraced.

* * *

EMME

I lay on my side, gasping and feeling thoroughly used, like a filled condom dropped to the floor. I was blind and mostly deaf, with the plastic wrap squeezing onto my eyes and ears. The world was muffled, but I knew how I must look. I licked my lips and tasted the remnants of this new man’s come.

Axl? Yes. That was it. A friend of Mr. Scott’s, with the same tendency to screw girls any which way.

The tiled floor was cold beneath my legs, side, and cheek. Both my breasts felt cool due to how he’d opened the plastic circling my chest. The marks of his fingernails twinged with renewed pain, and I guessed he’d cut my skin here and there. The man was a degenerate, a beast, and my pussy spasmed at the thought.

Every part of me seemed to hurt in some way—so many new hurts.

Cautiously, I explored the memory of what he’d done to me—the spontaneous face-fucking, the sadism, the dominance. For once I was glad that I hadn’t ever bothered with a therapist. She might have cured me. How far would my love of degradation and ownership take me?

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