Page 53 of Fire Fight

I let go of everything except the face and body that have entranced me for years. Pushing aside his personality as I undress him—a strip show now complete with full-frontal nudity thanks to yesterday’s stunt—the visual of his stiff cock adding an extra dimension to the daydream.

I imagine it pushing into me, tearing through any barrier, and instead of my usual horror, heat pulses inside me until there’s an empty ache, begging to be filled.

My fingers are a paltry substitute, their tentative exploration unsatisfying until I turn their attention to my pulsing clit, letting the gorgeous ripple of Drake’s shoulders fill my mind’s eye, wetter than my paperback collection ever got me.

His hand strokes my head, fingers threading into my hair, combing until the sultry ache of being manhandled turns to heat.

My tongue flattens against the floor of my mouth, saliva pooling, remembering the thickness of his cock, imagining the slippery satin of it gliding inside me as he thrusts his hips, slowly pumping deeper.

My throat spasms, a ghost of reflex; swallowing while the stretch of my fingers grows more insistent, painting the scene in such precise detail it could be happening.

Pressure builds in my core, taking me to the edge of previous endeavours and effortlessly surging past those markers.

My breaths shorten until I’m panting; my skin flushes, burning with the growing spate of electric tingles while my hips pump, bearing down hard on the mattress, an ache to fill theemptiness making me clench harder, seeking additional friction and not caring where it comes from.

I finger around my entrance and my body draws it inside, demanding attention, the snug fit igniting a series of ecstatic surges, propelling me higher and higher and higher until my thighs clench around my hand, crushing it, driving it back against my needy clit until a wave of pleasure washes over me followed by another, overloading my senses until my head swims, lost.

When I come back to myself, I’m on my back, legs splayed, breaths heaving in and out of my chest.

The ring of my alarm cuts off any attempt at introspection as I roll my pleasure-heavy limbs out of bed and drag myself into the shower.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CADENCE

By the endof the week, I’ve adjusted to my new circumstances. Being on the outs with the ‘popular’ table hasn’t really hurt me.

Rox isn’t above shoulder-checking me in the corridors, but Felicity still gives a friendly nod when Gretchen isn’t beside her. Perhaps she’s shoring up her allies to prepare for the day she gets shoved aside.

Hudson is the biggest help.

His relaxed attitude soothes my nerves when he drives me each morning. His playful overtures never overwhelm me, and I look forward to the journeys, flattered by his constant flirting.

The thought of our upcoming date still excites rather than fazes me. When I remind Mum I’ll be out for the evening, she asks Arnold if she can take us both to a beauty salon early on Saturday.

He agrees, phoning through to a spa attached to his gym membership where we can charge everything back to his name.

We relax in the heated water, then steam clean ourselves in the sauna before dipping into a cold plunge pool to seal thoseopen pores closed. A makeup artist contours my face until I look magazine cover ready, and a hairstylist tames the worst of my curls, adding highlights and streaks of rich chestnut brown to my supermarket brand DIY dye job.

While they work their magic on Mum, I relax in a chair, glancing over when a middle-aged woman takes the seat next to mine.

“Having a nice day?” she asks, and I smile, giving a polite nod. “You’re Arnold Fletcher’s new stepdaughter, aren’t you?”

I frown, checking to see if Mum heard, but the stylist is blow drying her hair. “Not really. He and mum aren’t married.”

“De facto then,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I heard he can be aggressive when things don’t go his way.”

My polite smile drops, and I shift in my seat. “I really wouldn’t know.”

“Maggie Arlington certainly had concerns about his controlling behaviour.” She pulls a business card from her pocket. “She left because of his violence. Against her and against her son.”

Maggie is Drake’s mother.

The revelation makes me uneasy, but also confused.

From the way he presented it, I thought Arnold had known nothing about his son until after Maggie’s death. To learn he might have been the impetus behind their estrangement sets off alarm bells.

My frown grows deeper as I study the woman. She’s well put together in the way women are when they don’t have money to splash about.

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