Foregoing the glass, she guzzles from the bottle. Silent and angry, I walk forward and snatch it away. Her eyes have turned wild and she’s close to hyperventilating.
“Breathe,” I say calmly, capping the bottle and setting it behind me.
She reaches for another bottle and I grab her wrist.
“No. Now, breathe and calm down.”
A moment passes.
“I need my phone. I have to call him,” she blurts, lost in her frantic state.
“What do you want more from him?” I can’t take it anymore. To help her, I have to get control of her. To control her, I need to bait her. “Sex or company?” Purposely, I leave off drugs. Neither of us can fuck around with that type of addiction anymore.
The guys crowd around the breakfast bar. I don’t know if they’ll have my back or not. Do I fucking care?
“Answer me.”
“Sex,” she says and then shakes her head. “Friendship.”
If she has Crowell as a friend, who the fuck’s her enemy? Looking at her, I know. She’s her own enemy. Just as I am mine.
The revelation beats through my veins and I reach for her, shaking off the hands that attempt to pull me back.
“Fuck off,” I snarl to no one in particular, daring them to fuck with me. If they do, I’ll subject them to the horrors I’d love to put Crowell through.
My band members step back. I yank Georgie to my bedroom, slam the door shut, and lock it. I take her into my arms and kiss her, backing her to the bed until we fall upon it. She’s ravenous, engaging her tongue, teeth, and lips in returning my kisses, while wrapping her legs around my waist. She rocks her pussy against me. The scent of her arousal excites me. Mint and black licorice from the J?germeister she drank teases my taste buds and drives me insane.
Her ass is bare beneath my shirt. I caress her soft skin, my hand traveling to her wet pussy a moment later. She’s hot and tight. I want to get inside of her. Instead, I bring her to the brink of orgasm and pull away.
Judging by her reaction, she doesn’t appreciate the separation. She inches closer to me and her dazed expression lures me. Her slim fingers clutches my shirt, straining my control.
“Do you want me to make you come?” My voice is rough and harsh.
She whimpers and rubs against me.
I brush a finger against her slit. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
We stare at each other, not breaking eye contact as I release her hair. I bring the finger with her pussy juice to my mouth and lick. Her breath hitches. One touch to her pussy will send her over the edge.
“What do you want me to do?” she asks softly.
Yes. What? Unless I find a way to keep her at my side until I leave, then tonight will be for nothing. Even beyond that, after I depart Houston, my hard work will go to waste.
I need to think further on this, so I spread her legs and lick her. My tongue works her clit through her orgasm. When she settles, I wrap my arms around her, threading my fingers through her hair.
I lean against her damp thigh, talking myself down from burying my dick in her.
“Get in bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
No, she’s exhausted, but she’s so fucking stubborn.
“I need a shower,” I tell her. “I promise not to be long. Relax while I clean up.”
This, she agrees to. I spend no more than twenty minutes in the shower, but, by the time I return to the room, she’s asleep, clutching my pillow close to her.
I should paint her in red.
She’s trouble. She’s danger. She’s my Lolita and Circe.
Instead, I quietly dry myself, climb into bed with her, and pull her into my arms.
“Sloane?” she mumbles.
“Yes, no one else,” I assure her.
Offering me a sleepy smile, she snuggles against me. I hold her all night, no closer to knowing what to do with her as the first glimmer of sunlight sneaks between the slats in the blinds.
Chapter Ten
Cassandra
Where’s Georgie? She’s supposed to be sick, but she’s not home when I arrive early in the morning. No one knows her whereabouts. For once, it irritates me that I don’t keep tabs on her.
I’m suspicious about why Sloane hasn’t answered me, and I’m suspicious over her absence, especially after one of the maids hands me a days’ old newspaper with a photograph of Sloane arriving at a hospital. The very same hospital where Georgie was admitted.
“Call Whitney. Tell her I’m home earlier than expected and I need her here.” She’s my assistant. She needs to be here to assist. I give the order to no one in particular. My staff is amassed in the kitchen, where I called them to ask about Georgie.
As they scramble to follow my orders and also to begin their regular daily tasks, the head gardener winks at me. Without saying a word, I know he enjoys my daily display in front of my window where I stand nude.
Perhaps, a raise is in order for him. Or even a little pussy play. The idea has merit and I smile as I head to my office.
An hour later, Whitney waltzes in, her blonde hair twisted in a severe bun, and her eyeglasses firmly in place. She’s in orange, and looks sallow with the color. I beam at her.