“Shut up,” I hiss. “Just shut up.”
He puts his mouth next to my ear and demands, low, “Tell me what to call you.”
“Joy.” It tears out of me. “My name is Joy.”
He goes still for a beat.
His hand cuffs my wrists against the wall as he finds my gaze. With the other, he unbuckles his pants, freeing himself. He slides his length between my legs, rocking, spreading the wetness.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, Josephine. If you don’t want that, say it now.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I want you.”
His eyes close, the name and the answer shivering through him. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a condom, presses it into my shaking hand. Our eyes meet. For half a heartbeat, he’s just Wesley—hurt, wanting, terrified.
Then the moment breaks. I tear it open, roll it on with trembling fingers.
He exhales a ragged sound, hoists me up, and drives in deep.
The shock steals my breath. “Wesley,” I gasp, clutching his shoulders.
He rasps, shattered, “Beg for me.”
“Please, Wesley. Please. I want you.”
He thrusts, sharp and hard. My body rises to meet the snap of his hips, my clit throbs, my nipples ache. I beg him to keep going, rolling my hips to match him. He fucks me brutal, relentless, turning every ounce of anger into motion, and I hold on, face buried in his neck, letting hurt and hunger blur until they’re the same thing.
This is wrong. This is us destroying what’s left.
But I can’t stop. Won’t stop. Because when he’s inside me, I can pretend he wants me—the real Joy, not the girl he invented.
Pleasure buckles me. I gasp and clench around him; my mind blanks as everything spills over. He shudders, groans, and comes too.
When it’s over, the room goes still—sweat and winter air cooling on skin. He’s breathing hard, staring past my shoulder like the wall might offer an answer.
Sliding out, he sets me down, knots the condom, fastens his pants. I smooth my dress with shaking fingers. Tears spill, hot and unmanageable.
He looks at me, eyes splintering. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll reach out, thumb away the tears, hold me in the cold ruin of what we did to each other. Instead, he nods once, turns, and leaves.
The door catches and clicks. The echo stays.
I slide down the wall, silk pooling around me, and let the sobs come.
This is what I wanted to avoid. This exact moment. Him looking at me like I’m a stranger. Like everything we had was built on lies.
Maybe it was.
I press my palm to the wood—the way I used to press it to his chest—and whisper into the empty room, “I’m still here.”
But I’m not. Not really.
The girl he fell for in Alaska doesn’t even exist.
And Josephine Preston, heiress, coward, fool, she’s not someone worth loving.
12
GAME FACE (WESLEY)
