Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
“Maybe.” I bristle. “Why does it matter?”
“Oh, no reason. It’s just that, you know . . .” She drops her phone on the mattress, whipping her head toward me. “Mom said Doug left something for me in his will.”
I still, my fingers pausing around one of the buttons. The air between us crackles with silent competition; I consider my next words, knowing we’ve started a brand-new mental chess game.
“I hadn’t realized Miranda and Douglas were in touch.”
She presses against me. Her hands lace over my back, kneading it in a massage.
“They were. They were in talks of reconciliation. Doug had been signaling to her that he was tired of his meaningless girlfriends, and you know how Mom broke things off with Dane not too long ago.” She watches me closely for a reaction. Our imaginary swords are still tucked away, our fingers itching to yield them. “But I’m not sure how serious they were.”
“That’s very convenient.” I smirk.
“What are you insinuating?” She rubs at my back.
“Nothing.” I push her away, let my shirt slip off my shoulders, and toss it at the foot of the bed. “We’ll see if he made some last-minute changes in his will.”
I don’t care one iota about Douglas’s money. I make enough on my own. What I do care about is Miranda getting her claws on something she doesn’t deserve. Grace too. They’d been loitering around him for scraps for decades.
“I’m getting a drink.” I exit the bedroom and stroll to the living room. I pour myself two fingers of whiskey. Sip it, one shoulder propped on the wall, glowering at the Central Park view.
Douglas fucking me over with a last-minute will before kicking the bucket is a valid possibility. He liked Grace well enough. Hell knows what he felt for Miranda. They’d had their ups and downs. But me? I’d always been a bone in his throat. My indifference toward him, toward his wealth, paired with my financial and mental independence always made him feel emasculated and unimportant.
Then again, I am his biological son. Doug always cared about keeping the fortune in the family.
Grace’s hands crawl over my chest from behind, splaying over the dark hair.
Her naked body presses against my shirtless frame.
Her tits are hot, her nipples erect. She nibbles on the side of my neck, licking and biting softly. Her breasts feel heavy. Has she finally put on some weight?
“Come to bed, you big grump,” she purrs into my ear, nipping on the shell of it.
I stare at the bottom of my glass of whiskey. “Sell it to me, sis.”
She cups my crotch from behind. I’m hard. She drags her hand higher, pushes it into my pants, and closes her fist around my shaft.
“Jerk you off?”
I put my whiskey down on a nearby table, catch her wrist, and tug her to stand in front of me.
I flip her around like she is a rag doll, bend her over a side table, grab one of her hips, and use my free hand and teeth to rip a condom wrapper. I always have condoms handy in my pocket.
I’m inside her within seconds. She is soaked.
I ride her from behind, closing my eyes, remembering all those times.
When she stabbed me in the back.
When she wronged me.
When she took what was mine and taunted me with it.
So much for having the blissful fucking fairy tale others have.
Grace finishes first. She always does. Nothing turns her on more than knowing she is getting dicked by the man she loathes the most.
I come a few minutes after. Yanking the condom off on my way to the bathroom, I pass by a floor-to-ceiling mirror in the hallway and pause.
I am extremely athletic. I play tennis six times a week. I’m relatively young. Handsome enough, and wealthier than anyone has business to be.
I can find a decent woman. The Arya type. A compassionate, smart, attractive companion whose lifelong wish isn’t to see me burn in hell. And yet Christian and Riggs are right. The only woman I have eyes for is my poisonous, fickle stepsister.
“This was good, wasn’t it?” she asks when I exit the bathroom.
I nod. “Wanna see a movie?”
I need to decompress after the wake.
“Actually, I’m gonna work on the balcony for a bit.” Grace is unplugging her laptop from its charger in my bedroom. “While the weather’s still nice and all.”
We never share a bed for more than sleep and sex. Never watch movies together. Go to museums, picnics, vacations.
Never do anything that is remotely couple-like.
“It’s fine, I have my own projects to tend to.” I make my way to my office and close the door.
It is time to call Dad’s estate lawyer and see what hell he brewed for me before he died.
CHAPTER FIVE
ARSÈNE, FIFTEEN
My taxi stopped in front of the Corbin mansion. I hopped out, a duffel bag dangling from each of my shoulders. I squinted up at the arches of the manor that I used to call home. At the closed door. The empty driveway.