Page 21 of Resist

“Get out!” he shouts, his finger pointing to the door.

His rejection stings. Not having to do this is the one thing I’ve wanted since I talked myself into being Saxony, and now that I have it, it stings. Pride has me warring some to save face. “Your previous girls were right—you’re a lousy lay.” I lash out with another lie to twist the blame of this disaster back on him.

No one’s told me that. And we didn’t sleep together, so how could I know? But the words do the trick, igniting his temper and pushing him over the edge.

“Get the hell out!”

“Gladly.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ryker

What the actual fuck was that?

The fear in her eyes is burned into my mind.

And the taste of her kiss is seared into my goddamn memory.

I pace back and forth across the lush carpet and expansive suite. I’m amped on adrenaline, horny as hell, and confused as fuck.

A quick glance at the door she just rushed from tells me, yep, it sure as hell did just happen.

But the question is what is it that happened?

The highly recommended escort who is really a virgin?

The Saxony who isn’t really a Saxony. Her hesitation to respond every time I said her name tells me that.

And why does that bug me? Why does not knowing more about her infuriate me?

Did Vee really think I wanted to deflower a fucking virgin? Did she think when I said I wanted someone who was experienced that I was playing a goddamn game?

I may be a callous fucker, but I’m not heartless. Scratch that—I am heartless, but even I have my limits. Even I have a conscience when it comes to taking the one thing from a person you can never give back.

“A fucking virgin.” I scrub a hand over my jaw, and fuck if the smell of her pussy isn’t on my fingers still. I must be a masochist because I inhale—take in the scent—and then laugh into the empty room.

There’s no way she could have been a virgin. No goddamn way.

Then what was it? What am I missing?

“Give it a rest, Ryk,” I mutter as I grab the decanter and, with a heavy hand, pour myself some more whiskey.

Amped up, I move to the floor-to-ceiling window of the bedroom and look out to the city’s lights beyond. To the million people living their lives. Fucking someone. Cheating on someone. Loving someone.

And here I am in a hotel room screwed . . . and not in a good way.

CHAPTER NINE

Vaughn

Shame.

It coats my skin in an impermeable layer as I enter my bathroom.

It became heavier on me with each step home.

Out of the hotel. Finding a cab. The long drive to the house. The fumbling to unlock the door. The discarding of clothes piece by piece as I trudged through the family room and into the hall.