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“As if,” I punch into the air, to the closing door.Not gonna happen.The words are so strong and sure of themselves, but my body duels with whether to leave or lay back like a wanton slut and present Xander Butcher with an appetiser. I’m sure he’ll be hungry after scolding Grayson for whatever dumb shit he’s done this time.
Oh. My. God.
Shut up, Kaya.
Climbing to my feet, I contemplate being worried about Grayson, but it’sXander, not Max or Bronson or Clay. He’ll just rough him up a bit, and what do I care?I don’t.It’ll be good for Grayson, a learning experience, if anything. He’s eighty-five kilograms of dirtbag.
I pull my white-wash jeans on, hopping from foot to foot as I shimmy the fabric over my arse, paired with a black tank top and nude stilettos that add five inches to my five-foot-three frame.
Scooping up my Gucci bag, I stride from Grayson Young’s room—no less satisfied than when I entered—before heading down the carpeted hallway, weaving between sweaty, gyrating bodies.
“You taste so good.”
That sentence comes to me unbidden. I clear my throat, trying to snuff out the sound of his voice purring those words, words I’ve heard from him before, but I don’t know if he remembers or if he just wants another meaningless round. He is scandalously loose with women. I can’t remember any reports of him ever having a steady girlfriend, but he’s also never without a girl on his arm.
Chloe is going to love this. I scan the top of the crowd, searching for her dark-brown hair sprayed flat to an almost concrete consistency. She’s six-foot, taller than most girls, so she is typically easy to spot.
“I need more of that.”
I growl as the words caress my mind, and catch sight of Chloe, who is waving at me excitedly before her face falls, noting my contempt. I get to her and scrunch my nose.
“A Talker?” she asks.
“No. A Dreamer.”
Her blue eyes widen. “That’s got potential. You just have to do a bit of the work for him, Kaya. Sit on his face, use his chin, ya know?”
Girls overhear her unapologetic advice, lifting their noses in revulsion as though they don’t fumble around between their folds late at night, fantasising about being gorged on like pudding.
“You’d like it,” I say to a mousy looking one standing close to me. She darts away with her friends, far too poised for us heathens.
Sneering at them, I reach for Chloe’s champagne and sip the golden fluid from the flute glass—no doubt snatched from Mrs Young’s fine china cabinet. “You know…” I swallow a mouthful. “The entire District thinks we’re sluts.”
She smiles proudly. “Iama slut.”
She’s not. She just enjoys men, as I do, for one thing: orgasms. “No. We like orgasms. What’s wrong with that? Our dads fuck around with every pin in a skirt, gifting them diamonds to subdue them while ourcorporate-wifemothers forgive them and continue to claw at unattainable beauty standards hoping one day they’ll stop straying.”
She groans. “Here we go.”
“I don’t want that. I’ll never be that. I’ll be the one buying the damn diamonds in exchange for their tongues and fingers.” After I’ve finished her champagne, I hand it back to her. She accepts it automatically. “And I’ll look however the hell I want to look, and it’ll be for me. Not for them.”
Staring at the empty champagne flute, her Nike-tic brows rise at my audacity. “Excuse me? You’renot a slut, Kaya. You don’t put out.” She waves the glass in her hand in feigned offence, and I grin. “You’re a selfish lover. You’reThe Taker.”
I roll my eyes. “I get too tired.”
“ClassicTaker-talk.”
“Anyway, I would have tonight,” I lie and she knows it. “But Xander Butcher interrupted us and dragged Grayson away. I swear. Said he needed to have—" I make bunny ears with my fingers. “‘A word with him.’ Do you think I should care? Or worry?”
“No.” She shrugs, nodding towards the sliding doors to the patio, where girls scream excitedly at the boys doing dumb flips into the glowing pool that sends water splashing around the polished decking.
We head outside, and Chloe adds, “’Cause you’re aTaker. Takers don’t concern themselves with lesser people.”
The manicured area is lit up by solar lights boarding the garden beds. They create a small glowing perimeter around the lawn and poolside. It’s edging towards being too cold for a swim at night now, but the alcohol works like a furnace in our veins.
We sit on a cushioned lounge, before we are greeted by beer-spilling boys and giggling girls wanting to chit-chat.
The night doesnotpass quickly while we switch from dancing and sweating our hormones out against each other and sitting to catch our breath and talk. But as time ticks over and into theearly hours of the morning, the party clears and calms, leaving only a few stranglers, Chloe, and me.
