Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Her brows kick up. “You mean leave?”
“Yes, child.”
“No, thank you.”
“If you must be stubborn, Luxury Whitson, all right. Victor, go ahead.” Whitson edges me on. “Who murdered my wife?”
“Dr. Charles Everhart.”
Seconds later, the smile I craved blossoms on her lips. “Uncle Red?” She laughs.
The bloody British Rail slams into me at full force. Luxury had mentioned her Uncle Red rather fondly in the past. She held him almost with the same esteem as her very own father.
The charged hilarity fades as she stares at her father for support. “Dad?”
The short man leans on his cane as if floored by my statement. Jonah slowly maneuvers himself down onto his favorite chair.
“Maybe I should let the two of you chat because this is utter bullshit.” Luxury turns around. I instinctively step toward her. Jonah begins to speak. I want to mend Luxury’s soul for the moment, but any information Jonah can provide will allow me to rectify the entire ordeal for Lux. So, I stop at the bottom of the stairs and listen.
“Charles and I attended Michigan State together. His parents came from money, paid his way. I had scholarships, grants,” Jonah Whitson says, though this bit of information was already in the profiles my computer whiz, Paul, provided. Still, I listen.
“The best of friends and the worst of enemies,” Whitson mumbles. This is the first morsel of information unavailable online since the two lacked social media profiles, leading relatively private lives. Jonah has more to divulge from the past, but he continues to skim the surface and change the subject. “We competed at everything. He has two American Heart Association research grants where I’ve had three.” He stops, looking distracted. “Will you go talk to Luxury?”
I nod then hurry upstairs. After knocking on the door, Lux replies, “Don’t come in.”
I open the door.
“I said don’t . . . please.” Though her voice is light, strain weaves through it. She stops patting her face with a tissue and looks at me. Earlier, she was my cheeky, aggressive girl, but now her eyes pull in every direction but mine.
“Talk to me.” My tone lowers, all husk, gravel, and bloody fucking desperation.
Again, like earlier, Luxury begins to back away, but I sense a newfound fear—not one of sexual attraction where liberties have been stripped away for self-preservation. It’s as if her body is internally shaking with rage.
“Luxury, I’m bloody beseeching you. Talk to me.” I reach over to take her hands, and she snatches them away. “What the fuck, Lux?”
“You remembered everything? Every sordid story I told to twist, bend me, break me . . . Uncle Red. I mentioned him to you. You saying he murdered my mom. That’s beyond—”
“I didn’t know Charles Everhart was your Uncle Red, but evidence supports it, Luxury,” I bite out. Fuck, that was a tad too honest for the chit. My hands drape over her neck, thumbs stroking the column of her vulnerable throat. “I recall how fond you were of him. You must concede to reason.”
“Oh?” She peers up through a flurry of lovely lashes. “Why haven’t you used my pain. Your ammo? Fuck me.”
I wriggle my stiff jaw, stopping myself from readjusting my even stiffer cock.
“Fuck me, Victor.” Luxury places her hands over the backs of mine, tempting me to tighten my grip about her throat.
Soft lips appeal to my quickly stiffening cock. I acquiesce by touching my mouth to hers.
Then bruising.
And fucking rough.
My mouth brandishes hers in a kiss meant to draw on our obsession with each other.
Damn right, I’ll take her crawling.
Panting.
Trembling beneath me. Still . . .
This is a trap.
My cock hasn’t the slightest care in the world. That dirty, fucking dog begs to sink into her lovely cunt.
Luxury pushes me away, rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth. “Eh, let’s not fuck. You just told me that the man I grew up calling Uncle Red murdered my mother! I think you’re . . . Victor, you’re psychotic.”
Although debatable, I refute it. “Luxury, I am not.”
“You are a sociopath!”
She leans against the wall farther from me, surrounded by an air of defiance. “Less than an hour ago, you reentered my life. My thoughts were everywhere but death until the mention of my mother. Victor, you are a murderer,” she says with disgust. This time she makes an accurate yet distasteful assessment.
“On occasion, I’ve murdered.” I try to keep my mind on the conversation at hand, but I crave the entwining of her soft body with mine. Pushing those feelings down, I try to focus. “I’m not here to refute that.”
“Have you ever murdered a woman?”
“Never a lady.”
“Wow.” She gives a shaky chuckle. “That was quick. You never could answer a direct question . . .but that one. Usually, you twist answers . . . me . . . everything.”
“Come off it, Lux. I’ve withheld information; I’m no liar. As required, I’ve expired a few cunts, no ladies.”