“No,” she admits, finally relaxing against me and throwing her head back. She arches her back to thrust her breasts up. “He was bringing me coke.”
Anger flashes through me, but I shove it aside. She’s calming down, so I’m calming down and wrestling back my dark desire. I turn her in my arms, entering dangerous fucking territory. Now that she’s facing me, I’m held captive by her violet eyes, throwing me into a near frenzy of need to fuck her and to control her waywardness.
She stands on tiptoes and I can’t resist bending to taste her luscious mouth. My fingers glide through her hair as I tease her lips with my tongue, until she opens and allows me to enter. The recesses of her mouth are warm and soft. She isn’t shy about meeting my tongue with her own. I groan when she pulls away and drops to her knees.
Her fingers slide to my belt, unbuckling it, before opening my jeans and grabbing my cock. She drags her tongue across the head, combining her saliva and my pre-cum. Cradling the back of her head, I surge into her mouth, keeping eye contact with her, almost nutting then and there at the sweet submissiveness of her pose.
She’s a pro at dick sucking and hollows her mouth, pulling me in deep before licking her way to my balls and tonguing the sac. When her fingers push into my ass, I growl, but I want to fucking kill Crowell. He taught her this dirty shit. Taking me into her mouth again, her fingers press against the spot inside of me that makes me roar in pleasure and fill her mouth with cum.
Giving me a final lick, she pulls away and rests on her haunches. Her mouth is swollen and her face is flushed.
And, I, Sloane Mason, officially initiates the downfall of my life.
Chapter Eight
Sloane
“Get up,” I snarl, shoving my dick back into my jeans.
Uncertainty flashes into her eyes. She licks an errant drop of cum from her lips.
Bending, I grab her shoulder and yank her to her feet, shaking her. “I said get the fuck to your feet.”
She frowns. “Crowell is always nicer after I suck him off. Why aren’t you? I didn’t do it right?”
Her words render me speechless and my nightmare worsens. I’m fucking furious I allowed her to suck my dick, and I’m fucking burning up at the thought of her with Crowell. The lines blur a little fucking more. A savior I am not. I should make a phone call and have her ass dragged to a rehab center, find her fucking parents, and blackmail them into checking her in.
That’s the fucking best I can do to save her. To be her savior. But I can’t do that. Blackmail is a two-way street and I have more to lose. For instance, Georgie discovering I’ve fucked her mother, and I don’t want that to happen.
I fell off the Wagon of Goodness they’re making me ride and let Georgie suck my dick. For once, I can overlook my excessive lifestyle and do real good.
“Will you make me come?”
Her words arrow right to the hedonist in me and I know I’m beyond fucked. Surprisingly, I start around her to leave. At the door, I turn to her and see her head is bowed, tears tracking her cheeks. She must feel my gaze on her because she raises her head and swipes at her face.
“See you, Sloane,” she says, overly bright, her phony smile plastered to her face.
The moment I leave, she’s going to find fucking Crowell. She hasn’t said it. As a matter of fact, her mask of sad innocence suggests she’s going to curl up and bawl like a baby.
“Pack an overnight bag,” I order her, satisfied when her eyes widen. Before she questions me, I add, “You’re spending the night with me at my hotel suite.”
That’s the best insurance I can give. If the guys are present, I’m guaranteed not to fuck up any more than I have.
I doubt they will be, though.
“Really?” she breathes, her excitement hard to ignore. The way her eyes suddenly light with something other than sadness or a drug high, affects my brain and my dick.
She runs up to me and hugs me. My arms wrap around her body and I breathe in the sweet scent of her.
“Do you want to take my car?”
I don’t even want to consider her symbol of bought affection and neglect. “No. My bike is fine.”
“A motorcycle?” she asks, her eyes rounding.
When I nod, she squeals and jumps up and down.
“I have to change,” she announces, and bounces towards her closet, where she pauses. “You’ll still be here when I come out, right? This isn’t an elaborate joke, is it?”
There it is again. Her lack of structure and discipline with a huge dose of mistrust. She’s too young for such cynicism. Instead of snapping at her, I say, “I don’t have time for those types of games, sweetheart.”
Her gaze softens and she nods before opening the door to her closet and walking in.
Cassandra