By the time I have the wherewithal to look up, the mask is back in place.
“Who are you?” I croak.
Nothing. Just a heavy rush of breath behind the mask. Then he’s gone.
And isn’t it just the fucking thing?
Part of me—a tiny part—wishes it was Fitz instead.
19
FITZ
This isn’t just escalation—it’s, like, a felony, right?
The way she melted under me, how she looked up at me in the yellow light from the landscape bollard, her eyes big. Like she wanted me. It’s the—What’s it called?—fawn response?
But damn if it didn’t feel good to finally, finally be able to just take what I want.
That’s the thing I hated about being poor—everything was a struggle. Want something? Fight for it. Beg for it. Lose face for it.
Now? I want something? I swipe a card, and it’s mine. Immediately.
On the way home, I buy an entire case of single malt just because I can. It will be good for theFourth of July.
I roamthrough the darkened penthouse. I’m not one of those billionaires that lives in a sterile tomb, not like Greyson Richmond. I like my stuff.
Normally, surveying my things calms me down.
Not tonight.
What is Winnie playing at?
Why throw her sister at me?
Is it a test? A game?
She wants me.
But doesn’t want me.
Is there someone else? AmIthe someone else?
She wants me—that much is clear.
Well, him.
She wants the masked man who’s watching her, anyway.
It does settle the debate—if I were to sneak into her bedroom, gag her, then slowly have my way with her, her pussy would take it, wet and greedy.
I can still taste her.
I want to go to her place right now.
But I also want to draw it out.
Savor it.
