Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
“I’m here when you don’t think I am, I see when you don’t think I can, and that ain’t gonna stop. But there are times when my back has to be turned and it just so happens last night was one of them.” Reaching up, I run the back of my finger from the edge of her jaw down to her chin, then right beneath it. “Let me find out he touched you and you didn’t tell me, and stirring things up at your little school will be the last of your problems. His too.”
Her jaw flexes defiantly, and she lifts her chin a bit. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.” Leaning in, I bring my lips to her ear, flicking my tongue along the lobe. “That is the only reason you’ll be getting what you want today, but if you think you’re getting off that easy, baby, you haven’t been paying attention.”
Gripping her shoulders, I whip her around before she has time to stop me, and she never sees the blade in my hand. I cut it straight across her chest, gripping the fabric in my palms and twisting before slicing the left side and then the right until the soft material droops in my hand.
She gasps, spinning around, her hand flying to her chest, her turtleneck now cut into a deep U.
Heat builds in my groin as my eyes lock on my marks across her skin, one, two, three, four, too many to count. Hickeys and teeth marks and tiny little scratches, all left behind by me in moments where she begged, moaning and writhing beneath me, my dick buried deep inside a body that belongs to me.
Her eyes flash, looking like my own little cheetah, and she’s even got the claws out, cheeks growing red with anger, those little hands making fists at her side. She opens her mouth to speak, but I shake my head, and what do you know, she snaps it right shut.
“Go on, Rich Girl. People are waiting for you, and I, for one, am dying to meet this nationally recognized archery team.”
She knows what I mean. She will show proof of me on her skin, or I’ll filet that heir’s right off. Today. Now. In this very school.
And she can’t claim the dress code shit on me. I saw shirts some of the other preps were wearing under their jackets. Rocklin’s cleavage isn’t even showing, just her marked-up chest, neck, and throat, but so what? She and all the girls wear kink clothes to that gambling room, so it’s not like Little Miss Perfect has to pretend to be the Virgin Mary. No, her covering them up is her preference. Well, too fucking bad, ’cause showing them off is mine.
Jaw clenched, she shakes her head, but I swear I detect a hint of humor hidden in those pretty green eyes. She steps closer, voice a raspy little whisper when she says, “Behave, Bastian.”
“Yes, mama.”
This time I know I see a bit of laughter, but I don’t call her out on it.
I follow behind like a good fucking boy.
Oliver Henshaw.
Tall. Tan. Brown hair, blue eyes, and basic as fuck.
Son of Otto Henshaw, American businessman and entrepreneur, twice accused of usury and illegal immigration trafficking. Twice cleared of all charges.
The article I found on him said he calls himself a philanthropist, and it makes sense. Throw your money all around so people praise you for your efforts, and just maybe, if you “donate” to the right cause, it’ll help you out. He sure as fuck lucked out after the green-thumbed DEA, who picked up his last case, was found tied up and tongueless on Treasure Island last summer, some kind of plant killer thick in his bloodstream … or so the internet says.
I imagine his work in the world they live in is much different than what court records state.
His son, though, has made no waves. He’s nothing but a boy in the background, but maybe that’s why he’s here. Maybe … that’s why he’s chasing what has already been caught.
I track his every move as he laughs and bumps his elbow into Delta’s second man’s arm, but the guy doesn’t join in, his jaw clenches, and he looks away. Not that this pompous fool notices. He just turns to the next dude, but as our group makes their way in, his attention snaps to the doorway.
He’s yet to spot me, but I keep him in my peripheral as I curve along at the back of the group, coming around the long way. He searches and searches, and then he finds his target.
He stands tall, a smirk pulling at his lips when he sees her.
Rocklin reaches the head of the group, and that chin of hers is held oh so fucking high. Too high, in fact, even for the queen bee.