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“Get the hell off me, or I swear I’ll punch your fucking throat,” I spat, venom dripping from every syllable.
His laugh cut through the haze of anger, low and mocking. “Go on then,” Weston taunted, breath hot against my skin. “At least I’d feel your touch again.”
My stomach twisted in disgust, but the heat of his arousal pressed against my ass was a maddening distraction. Every fiber in my being screamed to hate him, to push back with all the fury I could muster—but part of me, the part I despised, stirred at his proximity.
“I found out you fucked my dad. You’re sick,” I shot back, my voice a jagged edge as he spun me around. My hands hit the wall, caged by his on either side of me. The close quarters left no room for escape, no gap to slip through. His cologne filled my lungs, a scent that should have repelled me, yet somehow ignited a fire I fought so hard to extinguish.
Weston’s gaze bore into me, relentless, unapologetic. “You’ve been ignoring me,” he said, not a question but an accusation.
“I hate you,” I managed between labored breaths, each one tasting like betrayal. I wanted to shove him away, to break free from the hold he had on me—physical and otherwise.
“But you let me eat your ass, so you’re sick, too.”
The heat of his breath seared my ear, a toxic whisper that made my blood boil. I jerked away, venom in my veins. My head whipped back, and I spat straight in his smug face, the glob sliding down his cheek. I shoved at his chest, putting all my fury behind it, but the bastard stood firm, immovable as the walls caging us. Weston’s presence was a toxin I couldn’t purge, a dark allure I couldn’t deny, no matter how vile the truth.
“Fuck you,” I snarled, my voice a jagged blade.
Silence slammed down, heavy and suffocating. The room’s depravity faded into a backdrop for our standoff—moans and grunts reduced to white noise. He reached up, wiped my spit from his face with a calm that clawed at my sanity.
“It wasn’t what you think. Me and your dad,” he said, those brown eyes drilling into me, trying to pierce layers of rage and revulsion.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” I growled, but he was relentless.
“Wanting you had nothing to do with what me and your dad had. Really. It just—” His hands landed on the wall again, framing my head, his body a barrier I loathed and craved in the same goddamn heartbeat.
“Stop talking,” I commanded, the muscles in my jaw ticking with tension. Every word out of his mouth was a match to the kindling inside me, threatening to ignite something dark and hungry. I couldn’t afford to burn, not here, not because of him.
“Driver,” he murmured, using the nickname that sounded like sin coming from his lips. “I’m not lying.”
“Like hell,” I shot back, the taste of disdain bitter on my tongue. Silence stretched out, a taut line ready to snap. His gaze held mine, unwavering, unrepentant.
Weston Ashbourne, the asshole I couldn’t escape, even if every cell in my body screamed to flee. Suddenly, he was on me, his lips crashing against mine with the force of a storm surge, and damn it all to hell, I fought him. Fists clenched, my body rigid as steel, I tried to shove him back, but like grappling a goddamn monolith, he didn’t budge.
The longer our mouths were at war, the more I felt my defenses crumbling like neglected ruins. His kiss—fuck, his kiss was a weapon, sculpted to perfection by years of secret desires and hidden encounters. It scorched through my veins, setting every nerve ending ablaze with a fire I’d known nowhere else.
Images flashed behind closed lids—the tainted picture of him and my dad. I should’ve been repulsed, should’ve hated every second, but when my lips parted and a guttural moan escaped, surrender tasted so sweet I almost drowned in it.
Reality crashed over me like a bucket of ice water. With an inhuman effort, I shoved Weston away, my breaths coming in ragged heaves.
“Get the fuck off,” I spat, the words torn from the depths of a soul too twisted up in this fucked-up dance we did. His presence was a drug, potent and devastating, and I was teetering on the brink of addiction.
I shoved him back, feeling the wall press against my spine as he loomed over me. My gaze locked on his, a firestorm behind my hazel eyes. “I don’t fucking want you,” I snapped. “I don’t want to be part of your twisted fucking game or whatever the fuck you’re doing.” My chest heaved, anger and something more dangerous pulsing through my veins.
His brown eyes stayed fixed on mine, unflinching. “It’s not a game,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I have no reason to lie.”
A laugh, bitter as bile, erupted from my throat. “You’re an Ashbourne. You don’t need a reason to fucking lie.” The words tasted like acid on my tongue.
“So are you,” Weston shot back, a shadow of a challenge in his voice.
“No, I’m the bastard who made a deal with the devil to get the inheritance that’s owed to me for being part of this godforsaken blood line.”
For some odd reason, the words leaving my lips felt like a small victory against Weston. Speaking the truth about our fucked-up family and name. Our breaths mixed, hot and heavy in the charged silence. He was close, too close, and the heat from his body seemed to seep through the fabric of my shirt, branding me with a hunger I despised. His steps echoed, predatory and deliberate. He cornered me against the wall, his body a barricade I couldn’t breach.
“It doesn’t matter that you don’t want me because I want you,” he growled, eyes darkening with every word. “And there’s nothing you can do to make me change my mind.”
“Really?” I spat. “You sure about that?”
“Did I stutter?” His voice, a blade, cut through the tension.
