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If only he knew how she’d come apart around me, how her plump red lips had opened to let out mewls of pleasure.
“What I think about Bellamy is none of your business.”
He laughs again and my fist itches to plant itself in his smug face. “What is Thornton even having you two do? Wipe down the tables in the cafeteria?”
I throw him a cautious look, hesitating before speaking. “We have to prep the library ahead of the grand opening.”
His face falls, the smile slowly sliding down until his lips settle into a straight line.
I clap a hand on his shoulder in support. “You good?”
“Yeah.” He shakes me off, not one to be comforted or pitied. Not that I am, but that's how he perceives it.
Two years ago, Rhys’ parents, Richard and Lorraine Mackley, died in a tragic car accident. They were midway through a European road trip starting in England where they lived and on their way to see him at RCA, when their car spun out of control and hit a tree. They’d been killed on impact.
I knew them most of my life and the only thing they loved more than each other was their son. I’m no psychologist and I’m even less qualified when it comes to understanding my own emotions, but even I can tell that the grief and guilt have changed him. Where he was a good-natured jokester before, he now uses humor as a shield to deflect and distance himself. That’s an assessment, not a judgment.
They left Rhys a sizable inheritance, one he couldn’t spend in a lifetime even if he tried to. He’d used some of that money to fund the new library in their honor.
But he’s yet to set foot in there.
As usual, he steers the conversation away from the topic of his parents. “So what are you going to make her do?”
“No clue. I’ll let you know when inspiration strikes.”
???
“I want you to sleep in my bed.”
“Excuse me?” She asks, incredulous. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.” She makes a show of unclogging her ears.
“You heard me perfectly well.”
“I was being polite. You know politeness, what normal people use when they don’t want to be rude as they try to reason with someone who is clearly out of his mind.”
I’d had the idea last night when I’d said goodnight to Rhys and Phoenix before heading to bed. What better way to put our deal to good use than to use it to torment her 24/7?
When I don’t answer, she continues. “Why do you even want this? You hate me.”
“Because I can.”
She huffs angrily. “Well it’s a no. We said nothing sexual.”
I’d expected resistance at the suggestion so I drop it. For now.
I change the subject. “I’m bored, Yank. In the absence of valid distractions, you’ll have to do. Entertain me.”
It’s Friday afternoon and we’re in the library shelving books in the historical fiction section. Bellamy completed the first row as I instructed. Satisfaction coils through me seeing how well she obeys. I don't what I prefer - when she obeys or when she defies me and fights me every step of the way.
She’s bent over a box of books, giving me a prime view of her round ass in her jeans. I resist the urge to grab it, my hand craving contact with her again. She rights herself, turning towards me with books in hand. Her hair is slightly disheveled, her eyes cautious as she looks at me.
I want to ruin her.
To open her up and look at her insides and what makes her, her.
It’s different from how I wanted to tear her apart before. My fixation with her is morphing, taking a different shape as I spend more time with her. I want her writhing below me, unable to keep up with the pleasure I’m inflicting on her. The thing in my chest when I look at her is dark and corrupt and insatiable.
“How do you want me to entertain you?”
