“I-I…” But I don’t know what to say.
I’ve never been on this end of making out before. I’ve never had someone take charge of my body and dominate it so easily.
“I want to lick you all over,” he says, whispering it in my ear as if he’s sharing a filthy secret. “I want to feel you shudder like this all night.”
I hadn’t even realized I’m shaking against him, clinging to his biceps as he nibbles at my skin.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Please, what, sweetheart?”
A loud knock on the door jolts me before I can respond, and I yank myself from his grasp, taking a large step backward. I’m panting, wide-eyed as I stare at Atticus. He looks as calm and composed as ever, though his eyes are full of so much heat and need that I could drown in it.
“Cam?! Are you in there? We want to do celebratory shots!” Cassie’s voice bleeds in through the closed door, and the handle twists uselessly. The deadbolt is most definitely locked.
After another moment of staring in silence, I clear my throat, blinking rapidly. “I should probably…”
Gesturing awkwardly toward the door, I stumble backward once more. Atticus is watching me, as intense and domineering as ever.
“Sure,” he replies coolly. “Next time, then.”
“Next time?” I squeak out, my hand rubbing angrily over my chest.
Atticus smiles. “Yes. Next time, Iwilllick you all over. For now, enjoy the party.” His eyes darken as he licks his bottom lip, and his smile falls away. “EnjoyGrace.”
Atticus
3
“ENGLISH IS TOOHARD!”Atlas whines, flopping back onto the chaise he’s lying on in the drawing room.
I peer at him over my book, raising a brow. “You speak it perfectly fine, don’t you?”
He levels me with a glare, one that makes him appear to be a displeased, unsatisfied kitten.
“Of course,” he scoffs. “But this is different. How am I meant to write an eight-page essay onThe Scarlet Letter?”
“I did it,” I offer. “Padro doesn’t ask for the impossible, darling.”
My baby brother is still in high school, taking lessons from the same private tutor I had before I started college—the same one our little Abigail will obey once she enters her teen years.
I watch as Atlas whines, his fingers gripping the previously mentioned novel as he stares at the ceiling.
It’s known inside the walls of Chastain that I’m a protective older brother. I love Atlas and Abigail like my next breath of air, and I pray for any man who decides to lay a claim on either of them someday.
And yes, I saymanbecause it’s clear that both of them will fall in line with that assumption. Abigail spends most of her nights gushing over boy bands, even at her young age, and Atlas has grown into the perfect little prince waiting in his castle for a knight in shining armor.
And they’re both so beautiful—Abigail with her long blonde hair and bright green eyes, fair skin, and gentle but excitable personality. Then there’s Atlas, with his bouncy brown curls and big blue eyes, wearing his soft blouses and following Mother around, learning how to appear graceful and demure, as if he doesn’t already succeed just by breathing.
Neither of them is anything like me—all coiled control and barely contained possessiveness. Which is good, as I’m pretty sure my personality type isn’tnormal. Not with how involved I can be, how desperately I crave order and submission.
When I graduate and I marry, carrying on the Chastain legacy, it will be to someone who listens. Someone whowantsto be guided and controlled. I will not stand for anything less.
And this exact thought is why, for the first time ever, I’m having trouble focusing on Atlas and his whining.
My mind continues to wander back to last night, to a dark guestroom in town, way past the time I normally lock myself away to read or meditate. When I was somewhere I never would have gone before—until I sawhim.
I’m not one to label myself, though it’s true that very few women have ever gotten my attention. Men, either, if I’m honest. Not only am I extremely picky, but knowing my personality, only a very specific kind of person can pique my interest.
