Holy fuck!
I drop my face into my palms and groan yet again. Just thinking about it has me pressing my thighs together. I’m no slut, for sure, but I’ve had my share of men. And not one of them – not one, ever – has understood my choking kink like he did. I always hold my breath during sex…like some kind of freak. Chasing that rush of sensation that comes as oxygen and pleasure combine. No man has ever figured it out before, andnor have I let them – until those strong fingers around my throat took me right to the edge—
He could have fucking killed you, Em! Jesus.
Though I don’t know what was more stupid. Putting my life in his hands or riding that fucking steam train of a cock without even thinking of using a rubber. I must be out of my goddamn mind.
It was the tequila!
It wasn’t the fucking tequila. Sure, I’d been a bit giddy, but definitely not so far gone that I didn’t know what I was doing.
“Ahhhh… So that’s how it is…”
Stop! It!
I shake myself to clear my head, looking up at my reflection again. There’s a Frozen poster on the wall behind me. Really? Fucking Frozen! Does my dad think I’m fucking five?
No, he thinks I’m a pawn on a chessboard.
I want to scream and throw things.
Trapped. Trapped. Trapped!
I really need to get it together. In a few minutes, I’m going out there to face my father and the poncy backbencher he expects me to marry. Senator Roy Robbins. The wanker who bought me flowers – as if that would endear him to me. Whatever. I hate him already.
Yet, I can’t get out of it. Even a month of pleading, cajoling, and outright yelling hasn’t changed that fact. If I don’t marry the old geezer, I’m cut off forever. Disconnected from my whole family. As fucked up as it is, it’s all I know. That, and the fact that as a girl, my value to my father only goes as far as who’s willing to marry me.
I’m just a bargaining chip to him. A way to get his crooked fingers into the pockets of an equally crooked politician.
There’s a soft tap at the bedroom door, and I cringe as I hear it.
“Miss Em? Are you decent?” It’s Mr. Parker, my chaperone. At least, that’s what Dad calls him. To me, he’s the closest thing to a real parent I have. I scramble to pack the damning pregnancy tests into a bag and shove them in the back of my drawer. I’ll dispose of them later.
“Come on in, Parker,” I call back, reaching into my jewelry box to extract a pair of diamond stud earrings. My fingertips encounter that smooth band of gold, and I freeze for a second.
I wonder what she looks like…his wife?
Who gives a fuck, Emma?
Probably dark-haired and curvy. Like a motherfucking Kardashian. That’s what guys like him are into, right? Those Latino types like a girl with a bit of meat on her bones—
Who gives an actual fuck, Emma?!
“Are you ready, Miss Em?” Parker asks politely, watching as I put the glittering studs in my ears. “The car is here, ready to take us to the reception at the hotel.” I give a tight smile.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Parker.” I sigh as I stand. He extends an elbow to me, and I hook my hand through it.
“You look beautiful, dear.”
Yeah. Like a slutty virgin sacrifice about to be tied to a rock for a filthy old gorilla to paw at.
“Thank you, Parker,” is all I say as we move through the door toward where my miserable life awaits me.
Right. Let’s get this over with.
Chapter 7
Raoul Caraldi
