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For the record, I’m not feeding her good shit out of the kindness of my heart. There is no kindness inside me. I’m an asshole. There’s no prettying that up. But I’m not a dumb asshole. If this ends up going to court, preventing her from eating would be a nail in my coffin.
Her meals are well-documented, along with the fact that I ordered my chef to make fancy-ass meals specifically for her. Not my problem that he leaves them in containers, and she assumes they’re leftovers.
I’ve never accused her of being smart.
“None whatsoever,” Gail confirms. “She’s under the impression the meals are leftovers, though I suspect she tries not to get caught eating them. She’ll take a spoonful from each container so no one notices. The cameras inside the fridge and in the kitchen catch her each time.”
“Perfect.”
I dismiss Gail and head up the stairs, returning to my room. I can’t wait until Payton is done cleaning so I can tell her our plans tomorrow. That’s when I will find out the details I need to strip her of her inheritance.
Between commuting. School. Extra assignments. Cleaning.
And the next part . . .
Volunteering.
This girl will be hanging on by a thread.
The thread of that little towel she dropped.
I head straight to the bathroom and turn the shower on.
When I strip off my clothes, I see that I’m fucking hard.
Funny how that little vixen makes me hard. I’d be lying if I said she isn’t hot.
She is.
But that’s not what gets my dick like this.
Nope.
It’s her fire.
It does it for me.
And those tits aren’t bad either.
And now I’m back to thinking of those perfect tits.
I step under the scalding water. I’ll need cold water to settle this, but my muscles are tense from the workout and the day in general.
Since it’s not going to calm on its own, I fist my cock and start to work myself.
In my head, I try to imagine anyone but her.
And I fail miserably.
Instead, I picture her in my gym, cleaning my sweat from the ropes of the ring.
She’s bent over. Her ass is on full display.
All it would take is one flip of my hand to expose her under the skirt she’s wearing, pull over her thong, and sink into her willing warmth.
My hand moves faster.
I think of the way I would thrust inside her tight pussy.
In and out.
Reach forward and grab those perfectly round breasts.
Squeeze until she’s coming all over my cock.
That’s all it takes before I feel myself erupt in my hand.
After I’m fully drained, I reach for the soap and wash away all the memories of what I just did.
Better to fuck my hand than her. Either way, I’m going to need to call an old hookup because having this woman in my house is too tempting, despite the hatred I feel for her.
I spend the rest of the shower trying to think of everything and anything but her.
The news launched.
It went viral, too.
Rat droppings and E. coli in a tomato sauce are not good for business.
We made a killing when the stock plummeted.
Enough money that everyone can retire. Although I doubt anyone will. My friends, my colleagues, my clients, and who am I kidding, myself, love money too much.
Cyrus wasn’t wrong. There’s a good chance that Paul will realize it was us and come after our group. He’s dangerous enough to make the threat real. It’s a calculated risk, one that paid off, but still a risk.
All the stocks that I handle are set up, so the chance of him figuring it out is minor. All the accounts I used are shell companies, which are then rerouted through so many different IP addresses, so many different countries, and so many different banks that it would take a real fucking genius to figure it out.
And there’s only one Jaxson Price.
Good thing the jackass works on our side.
But I’m still cautious. I have a meeting with Brandon later to discuss ramping up my security. Maybe even putting an extra guard on Payton.
I run the shampoo through my hair and wash it out. When I’m done, I shut off the water and grab a towel. Hopefully, she’s done by now, and I can tell her the rest of my plan.
Once dressed, I head out of my room and down the hall.
Time to see what she’s up to.
Her room is empty. I take that as an invitation to look around. It’s my place, after all.
When we moved her stuff in, I already took the opportunity to peek, but now that her bag is here, I figure maybe I missed something.
I listen to hear if anyone is coming. It’s silent in the hall, so I open the bag, pulling out her notebook.
Maybe there are some bank records or correspondences. Maybe there’s something on her phone? I instructed the phone company to send me transcripts of her texts and records of her calls. But now that she knows I’m tracking her, I have a feeling if there is anything amiss, she is not going to put it in writing.
