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Madeline was the perfect choice in my father’s eyes—an Ashbourne-approved pedigree. Tits that filled her dresses to perfection, lips that smiled but rarely spoke out of turn, and a family name that opened doors. But she didn’t know me. Not really. The phone pressed to my ear, Madeline’s voice was a persistent buzz as I padded across the kitchen’s stone tiles. The minutes dragged like hours, her words a monotonous drone against the chaos of my thoughts.
“Uh-huh,” I murmured, a noncommittal grunt that passed for interest.
I reached the fridge, yanking it open with more force than necessary. The cord of the phone stretched behind me, a lifeline I was desperate to sever. My fingers wrapped around a container of cold pasta—last night’s remnants—a tangible contrast to the heat that still lingered on my skin, in my bones. Madeline prattled on about some triviality, her day as unremarkable as her presence in my life. She wasn’t the one who had left me breathless. Her name wasn’t the one etched into every corner of my mind.
Weston.
The mere thought of him sparked a wildfire inside me. I could still feel the press of his body, the roughness of his stubble against my inner thigh. The memory of his taste surged forward, flooding my senses.
“Is that so?” Words tumbled out automatically, my attention elsewhere.
My tongue darted out, swiping across my lips, chasing phantom traces of salt and musk. The recollection of his cock sliding between them, the way his hands had tangled in my hair, guiding… taking…
“Sounds exciting,” I lied, the decorative plastic fork snapping under the pressure of my grip.
Madeline continued, oblivious to my distraction, to the hunger that gnawed at me, raw and insatiable. I chewed mechanically on the pasta, but it was his name that filled my mouth, his essence that made my mouth water, my pulse hammer.
“Your father mentioned a dinner this Friday…” she trilled on. I leaned against the cold marble counter, the phone’s cord stretched taut as if it too struggled against the confines of this gilded cage.
“Sounds… lovely.” I forced the words out, each one a leaden weight dropping into the chasm between expectation and reality.
“Fantastic! I’ll wear that dress you love?—.”
“Hey, Parker!” The kitchen door slammed open, a gust of cold air curling around the room. Trevor’s voice cut through the haze of my lust-addled brain and also cut off Madeline mid-sentence. “You hitting the courts today or what?” he asked, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen.
“Hello? Parker?”
“Can’t wait to see you at the dinner,” I lied smoothly.
Her laughter tinkled through the line—a sound as hollow as the life laid out for me. “Okay, well what are you?—”
“Sorry, I gotta go. I’ll call you back tonight,” I said, knowing full well I’d do anything to avoid it.
“Promise?” Her voice perked up—an irritating chirp.
“Sure,” I lied, cradling the phone back on its base with a hollow click.
Trevor arched an eyebrow, leaning against the fridge, arms crossed over his chest. “Man, you looked miles away. Everything cool?”
“Fine as fuck,” I snapped, pushing off the counter. The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
“See you out there then.” He tossed me a nod and retreated, leaving me alone with the sting of my deceit.
If dear old dad had any say—and he always did—I would be making that call tonight. Albert Ashbourne dictated who we fucked, who we wed, who we discarded like yesterday’s news. And Madeline, with her pedigree and poise, fit his mold perfectly—everything I loathed, everything I was supposed to want.
Weston, his image seared into my mind, was my rebellion. My middle finger to the family legacy. My personal “fuck you” to every Ashbourne expectation. But even as I stood there, the longing for him clawed at my insides, as raw and demanding as it was taboo. A shiver of anticipation raced down my spine, and I turned, the echo of that illicit touch ghosting across my skin. Weston’s whispered promise lingered: “She won’t fuck you better than me.”
Fuck, he was right.
Chapter3
Weston
The throb of the bass assaulted the walls, each pulse a battering ram against the sanctity of my room. I slammed the law book shut, the dust of old money and mahogany itching at my nostrils. Two days. Two goddamn days with no parental oversight, and this house had spiraled into anarchy.
“Fuck,” I muttered, pushing away from the desk that cost more than most people earned in a year. The music from the foyer clawed through the air, a cacophony of beats and raucous laughter mocking my attempt at discipline.
I surged to my feet, my body taut with pent-up irritation. Every fiber within me demanded order, craved the silence that money should have bought. My blood was a river of molten anger as I strode towards the door, fingers itching for retribution or a stiff drink, whichever could quell the fire first.
