Page 45 of Hired Help

My fingers grip her chin harder, adjusting her position so I can kiss her. Not the gentle way I did at the dance but to take my fill of these lips that I’ve stared at for a month but never tasted until tonight. I kiss her like it’s a full frontal assault, devouring her mouth, bruising her lips, engaging in out and out warfare with her tongue.

I ravish her and she opens for me, giving me access to everything I need, taking everything I force on her and waiting for more.

Of all the scripts I’ve written for her, all the scenes I’ve choreographed, guided her through, this is the best one. This is the one perfectly edited to meet my needs. I grind against her then have to stop, have to lever my body away because I’m already overdosing on desire, balls tightening like they’re one second away from release and I don’t want to stop so soon.

I push away from the wall, stepping back, hands on hips.

My eyes skate along her figure, seeing the streaks of mud on her legs, the damp hair clinging to her chest, the fabric so wet against her skin I can see every freckle, follow every curve.

And my mind still goes to what I think she’ll like, what escapades she’ll enjoy, still trying desperately to be worth her while so she doesn’t move on to someone else.

“Do you think I didn’t see you flirting with those men? Did you think you were hiding how excited you were when they promised to drag you inside and let everyone have a turn at you on the slab.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “No, I was trying—”

“No?” I move another step back, jerking my chin at her. “Why don’t you take off that dirty dress? Why don’t you peel down your knickers and prove to me you’re not dripping wet.”

A thought wriggles in the back of my mind. I shouldn’t. She belongs to Harrison.

But I slam it away.

What we’ve done already has no doubt fucked any chance I had to win back my son. If I’m going to lose even the few scraps of hope I’d kept after all these years, better make it worth my while.

Brooke is frozen in place. A flush of arousal sneaks from beneath her collar, creeping its long crimson fingers across her cheeks, the heat making her eyes sparkle.

“Did you need step-by-step instructions?” I tease, my voice thick, rough, grimy with need. “Have you forgotten how to remove your clothes?”

Her arms finally move, hands reaching to the back of her neck to undo the long row of fastenings holding her high collar in place. Once they’re freed, the fabric sags forward, the long vent in the back giving enough freedom for it to fall in soft folds around her waist, revealing her marvellous tits.

It only takes one tug more for the dress to pool at her feet.

“Now your underwear.”

She hooks her thumbs either side, making a slow show of pulling them down, delicately stepping out of them.

I surge forward, snatching them from the floor, spreading the thin fabric across my fingers, showing her the dark patch of moisture, shoving them right in her face.

“Now tell me, is this for them or for me?”

When she doesn’t answer quickly enough, my lips skim her ear, growling until a shiver runs across her torso. Until she whispers, “It’s for you.”

“An answer that would have been believable if you hadn’t hesitated for so long. But now it sounds like a lie.” I roll the fabric into a ball, taking a long sniff that she flinches away from, shoulders hunching.

“Open your mouth.” My voice comes from so deep in my throat, it sounds guttural. A snarl. “Open your treacherous, lying mouth.”

The moment Brooke parts her lips, I wad the panties inside, tucking in the small tufts that poke out, then covering her mouth with my hand so she can’t spit them out again.

“Since I can’t trust you’re telling the truth, you lose speaking privileges. For tonight, any sound you make will either be punished or ignored.”

I ease the pressure against her lips, then trace my thumb along her windpipe, seeing bruises from where another man got there already tonight.

My son.

The rage seizes me again, shot through with regret. This girl pitted me against my own child.

I step back, hands fisting at my sides while my throat works, unable to get words out because there’s too many of them to say. I force my fingers to unclench, let the aggression flow down my arms, along my fingers, dripping onto the floor.

Brooke stares at me, lips parted, following every movement with focused precision. She’s dishevelled, dirty. I can’t remember a time I wanted someone with the same raw need that grips me now.

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