“You taste so fucking sweet.”
He slides the tip between my folds, thrusting slowly inside me, and he stretches me, hurting me for a few seconds before he shoves forward.
I arch my back. I moan. He groans. Need surges through me.
He stares for a second, daring me with his eyes to tell him no.
I want him, but I know he doesn’t belong to me. He’s going to marry someone else who’s on his level—and me? I’ll probably never marry anyone. I plan to be single for a while. I used to dream of getting my happily ever after, but not anymore. I can’t afford to dream of getting married.
Someone knocks on the door. Hard. I freeze. Irvin grits his teeth.
Irvin stares at me, maybe he’s debating whether he should keep going.
The person bangs harder on the door.
“Open the door, it’s important, Irvin,” Jameson demands.
Irvin pulls out of me, gets to his feet, yanks his pants over his hips, and zips himself up.
“Fuck,” Irvin says.
After I come down from my high, my shoulders slump.
I yank down my turtleneck and pull up my pants.
Frustration clouds Irvin’s eyes, and his forehead creases.
“I’m going to beat Jameson’s ass for interrupting us.”
He adjusts his erection and opens the door.
Jameson leans against the archway with a bag of Skittles in his hand. He pops one in his mouth. “Your father wants you at the mansion ASAP. It’s important.”
Jameson came at the right time, and I’m glad he interrupted us.
I rush to the door. “I’ll see you later.”
He grabs my arm, kisses my lips, and I can smell myself on him.
I want to cave, but I’m stronger than this, and I’ve never been this weak in the knees for any man—and I’m not about to start now either.
“Next time we’re going on a date, princess.”
Yeah . . . no. That’s not going to happen. I plan to avoid him at all costs after today.
Without saying another word, I leave the room.
Irvin
Icoast up the driveway of my old home, the one I lived in before I went off to college, kill the engine, then amble to the matted doors. I type in the code and rush straight to the living room, where I know he’ll be.
My gaze drifts to the burnt-brown divan that used to belong to my mother before she died, and the elegant painting of her above the inbuilt fireplace.
My father lounges in his wingback recliner, a glass of wine in his hand. He tosses the newspaper onto the round table beside him.
After my mother’s death, he hasn’t been the same. She died in a car accident when I was in high school, and my father had every opportunity to marry someone else in the American Billionaire Club, but he chose to remain single.
My father peers up at me.
