Page 5 of Sweet Nothings

He doesn’t break his mouth away from mine. Effortlessly, he slides his hand between us, unzipping his pants. I urge him to keep going, wrapping both hands around his face. The stubble lining his jaw cuts into my palms. I bite down on his lip when the back of his hand grazes against my wet center. His knuckles roll across my clit, causing a moan to climb up my throat.

When he finally frees his cock, he pulls a condom from his pocket and slips it on. Grabbing onto my hips with his firm fingers, he guides me over him. I lower myself, feeling every inch of himself bury deep inside me. My walls clench around him, begging him to keep going. I grab onto the collar of his crisp, black shirt, pulling him to me.

Coaxing my lips apart with his tongue, he slides it along mine, tasting me. My legs burn as I lift myself up and down. My heart is racing. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in six months, but I already feel myself approaching the end. I’m going to come all over him before the car has stopped.

This is meaningless. Tomorrow, we’ll both wake up and remember this night, knowing we’ll likely never see one another again.

Men with our social standing usually don’t stick around long, at least the ones I’ve experienced: my dad, my uncle, our rival families in this city. All have a reputation of putting money before love—a little-known fact only those in our circle know. Everyone else in this city is too busy with their own lives to pay attention to the secrets of the insanely wealthy.

A pawn. A game. Collateral Damage.

I’m no stranger to being used.

Roe used me to get to this party tonight. The man I’m in the car with is using me for an escape. But I don’t blame him. I’m using him as an escape, too.

My body vibrates and my chest explodes when he pulls away long enough to whisper against my mouth.

“Happy birthday, sweet nothings.”

TWO

Present Day

“Tell me again why we’re here.”

“Someone died, Laurel.” Roe sighs beside me.

I bite back the groan roaring up my throat and sling back the rest of the champagne. The bubbles pop and fizz their way down, taking my groan along with it.

“I’m aware someone died, Roe.” I deadpan. “But no one gave a shit about James Harding. Most of all, our family.”

A server wearing all black passes by us. I quickly drop my empty glass on the tray and grab a fresh glass of champagne, immediately taking a drink from it.

“You’re drinking as if you’ve never had a drink in your life.” She giggles under her breath.

“Not going to lie, it’s the only thing that’s making this funeral tolerable.” I smooth my hand down the front of my stark black dress. I’m just another person dressed in black filling the large marble dining hall. Large French doors are propped open, displaying the acres of land stretching all the way out to the water’s edge in the distance. The sun is bright, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. If it weren’t for every single person dressed in black, I’d think this was just another rich cock sucker partydisguised as a fundraiser. Unfortunately, we’re familiar with functions such as those.

“Honestly,” she sighs. “I don’t want to be here either. I’m just not as obvious about it as you are.”

I give her a sidelong glance, nudging her shoulder with mine. We’re standing at the edge of the crowd, people watching. It’s one of our favorite pastimes. Or it could be that it was the only way we used to survive functions like these growing up by being invisible yet obvious at the same time.

“No one gives a shit this man died.”

Roe’s eyes continue to roam the crowd. “I’m not sure that’s entirely true. Someone in this room must have genuinely cared for him. If they didn’t, it would be pretty fucking tragic.”

The overwhelming need to leave blooms in my stomach. I keep my attention on the crowd, screwing my mouth to the side, attempting not to seem too obvious or speak too loudly. “We could sneak out through the back,” I whisper. “Make it look as if we’re exploring the grounds.”

“You’re insufferable.” She shakes her head, tucking her long brown hair behind her ears. Her nails are painted a thick, rich black. Mine are a bright pale pink.

I half expect her to laugh or smile, but she doesn’t. Her eyes seem far away even as they scan through the people passing by.

The funeral ended less than an hour ago. After James Harding was buried under six feet of cold, hard dirt, where he rightfully belongs, we all headed toward the Hardings’ summer house situated along the coast.

Until today, I’d never been to any of the Hardings’ homes. Rumor has it they have at least twenty with ten of them in the Boston city limits alone. A little over the top if you ask me, but then again, our family isn’t used tothiskind of money.

We have money, but not Harding money.

I look at my sister. Her skin is pale and her lips are painted a faint pink. She’s softer than her usual appearance, especially for events such as these.

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