Page 26 of Sinful Temptations

A dirty slut. A liar. And a freak.

My tears mingled with my rain-drenched face. But I didn’t wipe them away.

The lump in my throat was massive.

I reached Parc du Champ de Mars,the beautiful park showcasing the Eiffel Tower, and started running. My stupid tits pounded against my chest, forcing me to slow down.

Every breath was agony.

People were looking at me.

But nobody asked if I was okay. Nobody cared. Not a single person cared.

I had never been so alone in my life.

Chapter Six

When I reached Pierre’s cobblestoned lane for the third time that night, it was different again. Nearly all the lights had been turned off, and there wasn’t anybody about, not even on the upper balconies. I strode up the alley, a woman on a mission.

I was drenched through.

I was seething with anger.

And I was ready to kick Pierre in the fucking balls.

At his door, I checked the handle first, but it was locked. With my fists clenched into tight clubs, I banged on his door. “Pierre,” I screamed his name, not caring if I woke the entire neighborhood. The more people who were angry at him, the better.

“Pierre. Open the goddamned door. Pierre!”

My throat burned and my fists hurt, but I kept it up.

“Pierre!”

A light split through the crack beneath his door, and I stepped back, ready to barge past him.

The door eased inwards, and I charged forward. It hit Pierre in the chest, flinging him backward. He toppled overthe jumble of shoes and landed on his ass. With my heart in my throat, I raced up the stairs.

My bag was where I’d left it. I hooked it over my shoulder and spun to leave.

Pierre was there, his hands up, a pleading look on his face. “Daisy, I’m sorry.”

I pumped my fist at him. “Shut up.”

His shoulders sagged. “Daisy, please, listen to me.”

I strode forward and using my anger as a weapon, I rammed my Converse sneaker right up between his legs. Pierre doubled over, howling.

“You fucking asshole.” I shoved his shoulders and he tumbled to the floor.

I snatched up a wine bottle on the kitchen counter, unscrewed the lid and poured red wine all over his lovely white bedspread.

With a scream that burned my throat, I hurled the bottle at the wall behind the bed. It shattered into dozens of pieces, raining glass onto his pillows.

Pierre was still on the floor, cupping his balls and whimpering.

I strode to him. “You’re a filthy piece of shit. I hope you die a lonely man.” I kicked him in the thigh, and although I was sure it didn’t hurt that much, Pierre howled again.

Clutching my bag, I scrambled down the stairs. By the time I reached the bottom, he was crying.

---