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Then, to break the tension that had built up in the room to a point there was barely any oxygen left to breathe, I announced, “Now excuse me while I go iron my blouses. It always puts me in a grand mood.”
This time, he didn’t award me with his usual chuckle. I drifted to my room in silence, wondering at what point Riggs Bates’s laughter had become my favorite soundtrack.
Since I didn’t have room for cutlery, let alone an ironing board, whenever I steamed my clothes, I’d do it on my bed, using a piece of tile as a buffer so as not to burn my duvet. It made ironing quite the operation,seeing as I had to bend over in an R shape to ensure my clothes were crisp and wrinkle-free. Strangely enough, I did not derive my usual pleasure from doing something that would make me appear upper class.
I kept running the hot iron over the same crease on my cherry-red blouse distractedly. I managed not to think about what had happened with Riggs out there, instead refocusing on my newly found hatred toward BJ.
I wondered if he’d always been a rubbish person, or if he’d sprouted privilege and brattiness in recent years, when he realized I’d stick around for the perks? My guess was he’d always been a twat, and I simply looked the other way. Well, it was safe to say my nose was now deeply shoved in BJ’s bad behavior. And that no amount of wealth in the world was worth sticking to a terrible partner.
I was running the iron over the crinkle in the sleeve again when I felt something hard and hot pressing between my thighs from behind. Oh, no. Did I wee myself? I could swear I wasn’t drunk anymore.
Wait, no. It was a palm. Ahumanpalm. Riggs’s palm?
Ohmigod.
I clenched involuntarily around his hand, ribbons of warm tension uncurling beneath my navel. He cupped me from behind, and I wasn’t sure if I was more confused or more hot and bothered by this surprising turn of events.
I wanted to ride his hand to a climax but stayed perfectly still, afraid it was some sort of a game or payback for my utterly selfish behavior.
“We’ll be breaking the house rules.” His voice was so deep and thick it sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the ocean.
I licked my lips, remembering the silly contract on our stupid fridge. “We don’t even live in a house, do we? It’s a flat, and really, rules are born so we could break them like an artist. Or so Picasso—”
“This doesn’t mean we’re a couple,” he continued, his voice rough. His middle finger traveled up, skimming my slit through my underwear and trousers teasingly.
“I know,” I said, my voice breaking.
His finger pressed into me, bunching the fabric of my knickers between my folds. I let out a growl, dumping the iron and straightening my back. He pressed his free hand to the base of my spine, keeping me bent.
“I like the view better from here,” he whispered into the shell of my ear.
“Riggs! How dare you?” I huffed prudishly, trying to preserve the minuscule pieces of my pride.
“Easily. You’re objectifying me and using me as a revenge fuck to dangle in front of your little boyfriend for when he comes back. I’ve seen that movie a hundred times, Poppins. I’ll be your leverage. Your eye for an eye. And he’ll have to swallow the fact I dicked you down, because he’s been unfaithful too. But eventually, you’ll forgive each other and live miserably ever after in a big house in the burbs, complete with an au pair who looks just old enough not to be a temptation for Cocksucker.”
He used the rest of his fingers to pry my thighs open crudely. I widened my stance without protest, even though everything he just said sounded outrageous.
“Maybe I won’t take him back,” I said.
Riggs chuckled darkly. “Don’t write checks you aren’t willing to cash. You’re too enamored with the idea of being Mrs. White Bread, with the silver-spooned spawns and country club membership.”
I gulped, feeling both humiliated and aroused. I really wasn’t going to take BJ back, but I also didn’t want to discuss him at present.
“The thing about being bad ...” Riggs leaned over, pressing his hot erection against me, his lips skating over the side of my neck. “Is that it’s no fun unless you own up to it. So own up to it. You’re about to fuck the husband you think is a broke-ass, no-good loser, and you’re doing it just so you can throw it in Cocksucker’s face.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out. When I didn’t say anything, he snickered. “Good girl. Now we’ll do it my way, because you want it not to suck, and I want to test my theory.”
“What theory?” I finally found my voice. It sounded like there was gravel stuck in my throat.
Riggs pressed his open mouth to my jawline, sending goose bumps down my spine. He gathered my hair, letting it fall on my opposite shoulder.
“I want to see if corrupting the good girl reallyismore fun than taming a bad one.”
Anxiety and heat gathered in the pit of my stomach. It was a delicious mix, expecting the unexpected, wanting to cross my own red lines, to sprint past them, to the unknown. To a man I’d never consider under normal circumstances.
“You thought about having sex with me?” I squeaked.
His hard abs trembled with a chuckle against my lower back.
