It should be the most demeaning and dehumanising experience of my life, but my head has been hard at work, already picking it apart, keeping the bits that suit and tossing the rest away.
Rather than dwell on the weapon, it fixates on how Maddox’s eyes were glued to my face, the crackle of the fire sending a bump of adrenaline to my bloodstream like a cocaine chaser, making everything vibrant, energetic,alive.
Under his gaze, it felt more like he was shoving his dick into me than a gun, my tongue licking around the barrel, confused when it felt the moulded casing rather than the hard satin of his cock.
When he demanded I lift my skirt, there’d been a pulse throbbing through my centre, my muscles clenching and releasing in time with the thrusting weapon, his pure need melting me more than any fire.
A weird rush of energy had engulfed me and that was when all I could see of him was his eyes.
The revelation as he removed the scarf sent another bolt of psychotic desire twisting through my core.
His father, Blaine Alcott, alarms and revolts me in equal measure. The friend he once lent me to, Vale—who dresses like a dapper fifties’ gentleman and fucks like a serial killer—just plain scares me.
But this boy who got every advantageous piece of the genetics lottery, who sat opposite while I stuffed my face, barely taking a bite, appears far more wary of me than I am of him.
A better looking, better tempered version of his father, distress had poured from him in waves while he sat, blankly staring, forgetting to eat. Traces of it linger as he opens the passenger door for me, and I obediently climb into the seat like my ambition is to feature on a true crime podcast. “Where are we going?”
“If you tell me where you live, I’ll take you home.”
A plan that sounds dangerous. “Can I have the drugs? I told you the story you wanted to hear.”
His lips twitch, brow twisting into a frown. “Do you do it a lot? Tell men things they want to hear?”
That’s a loaded question and a half. I squint at him, more puzzled by the second.
At the warehouse, I thought he was older. Fair enough, he towers over me, his body might be slim but even the darkness can’t hide the solid muscles rippling underneath the cling of his dark T-shirt.
But he’s not a man. He’s a boy.
Seventeen. Eighteen. No better or more worldly than me.
Fitting him into the slot reserved for teenagers shouldn’t make me feel superior but it does. MyPrivate Sessionsaccount is populated by a lot of fans his age; armed with an overdose of testosterone and their daddy’s credit card.
If he takes after his father, he probably maxes out the private requests every month.
He tilts his head until the moonlight illuminates his blond hair like an angelic halo. “If you don’t tell me where to drive you, I’ll have to dump you back at the dealers’ squat.”
Wow. Just… wow. “Did your parents raise you to be a dick or did you get that way by choice?”
Something hard shutters over his expression, a warning sign I blithely ignore.
“Sorry if that’s confusing.” I wrinkle my nose, smiling as the warmth from the meal spreads throughout my body, sending me on a natural high. “Parents are what us poor folk have instead of nannies.”
“And yours forgot the lesson on manners.”
“Says the boy with a wet gun hidden in his glovebox.”
His expression freezes, then he bursts into laughter and the tension dissolves like the flick of a lightswitch. The baggie is tossed in my lap, and I tuck it away before fastening my seatbelt,reciting my address before he can ask again. Getting a lift home isn’t the worst way this evening could have gone.
As he drives us through the older parts of the city, the houses turn from functionary to beautiful. We pass one with a helipad on its roof, not an irregular occurrence around here.
Blaine Alcott is one of the richest men who attends the club. Maddox grew up in this kind of luxury. He probably learned to fly a helicopter before he got his driver’s licence.
But the wealthy suburbs are soon behind us, the streets grow darker, the homes packed closer together. In no time at all, he turns onto my street, my house the large one at the end of the road. It would be impressive if it weren’t separated into a dozen different flats, each tinier than the last.
He pulls to the kerb in front, switching off the engine and getting out, circling the car to release me from the passenger seat. I scramble free, grabbing the bag of food and my one remaining shoe on the way.
My hand brushes against his and I expect him to jerk away, repelled by my touch like he was at the restaurant, making me feel dirty. Instead, he takes it in his, thumb caressing the soft skin on the back, staring at me with curiosity.
