Page 26 of My Soul for Sale

I head straight for the coffee maker, grab a mug from the rack on the counter, grateful for the convenience. Rifling through cabinets in search of one would be a breach of privacy I wish to avoid.

Mug filled, I put some sweetener in and head to the fridge. Opening the door, I reach for the almond creamer, my mind already drifting to the first sip of the sweet goodness. But just as I finish pouring, someone clears their throat.

Startled, I slam the fridge shut and whirl around, the creamy liquid sloshing out of my mug and onto the floor. “Fuck! I’ll clean that up,” I mumble, locking eyes with Ripley, my cheeks heating.

I grab a rag from the nearby sink and kneel to mop up the mess. Ripley’s eyes never leave me as I clean it up and toss the rag back to the sink.

“You startled me.” I smile.

Ripley's expression darkens, his eyes cold and distant, as if I'm beneath him. There's a subtle curl of disdain on his lips, a silent judgment that cuts deeper than any words.

“One night and you fuck my son?” he sneers.

What the hell?

He went to the damn auction, knowing that’s exactly the point of this fucking weekend. Now he comes downstairs and is acting like I’m some cheap whore?

Not to mention he acted fine with everything last night, excusing himself so Atlas and I could talk. What changed? Why has he suddenly done a one-eighty?

Well, I don’t care who he is or what his problem is. I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing he or Atlas, hell, both didn’t plan to do with someone else.

“Kinda the point, isn’t it?” I snap. He’s not going to treat me like shit and not get a fucking attitude back.

Glaring at him, I take a sip of my coffee and set my mug on the counter.

“You’re just like her. A whore.”

Before I can stop myself, I take a step toward him and slap him hard across the cheek. His head turns slightly to the left with the impact.

I want to scream. My whole adult life so far has been spent running away from that comparison. My mother is a toxic symbol of everything I never want to become—a constant reminder of pain and betrayal. To even suggest that I’m like her in any way is an insult to everything I've fought so hard to leave behind me.

“I’m nothing like her.”

My jaw clenches, teeth grinding together hard enough I might crack a molar.

How dare he?

Ripley's expression shifts from shock to an unreadable mask. Before I can register what's happening, his right hand lashes out with lightning speed, his fingers wrapping around my throat like a cobra, cutting off my air supply.

Panic surges through me as my backside hits the counter. Ripley's eyes bore into mine with an intensity that causes goosebumps to ripple across my skin.

And then, his lips crash against mine with a bruising force, rough and demanding, devoid of any tenderness or affection.

I kiss him back, our tongues fighting for dominance as I wrap my arms around his neck and bite his bottom lip hard. He hisses and releases me, only to spin me around and force me face down on the countertop.

His hands push Atlas' shirt up roughly, exposing my bare ass and core. He slaps my ass and dips his fingers into my pussy.

“Filthy little slut,” he growls.

I shouldn't be turned on. I shouldn't be feeling this way—his words, his touch, they shouldn't be stirring something inside me. It's all so messed up.

I bite down on my lip, trying to suppress the moan that wants to escape.

This isn't right.

Just last night, I was wrapped in Atlas' arms, lost in the sweet intimacy we shared. And now, here I am, standing before his father, my body betraying me.

When he grabs my hips, he lifts me and pushes forward, my thighs meeting the countertop. My toes don’t touch the floor now, but I don't even care. I'm more worried about why the hell I'm not fighting back when I feel the tip of his cock pressing against my opening.

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