Page 131 of Cashmere Ruin

“Again,” I moan.

Every thrust punches a wild cry from my throat. At this point, it’s useless—I can’t even remember why I’m supposed to keep quiet anymore.

“Again, again, ahh!”

“You want this?” Matvey snarls, his grip bruising on my hips. “Want me to fuck you in a dirty bathroom like a whore?”

“Yes!” I cry out. “I’m your whore! I’myours.”

“Want them to hear you? Your shitty father, your bitch of a stepmother?”

“I don’t care,” I moan. “I don’t care who hears.”

He grins against my throat. “Liar.”

That’s it: one word and I’m coming. I sink my nails into Matvey’s shoulders and bite down into the crook of his neck, stifling my moans. I hear him groan at the sensation, wild and unrestrained, and finally feel the warmth of his release spill inside me.

We catch our breaths against each other. When I turn my head towards the mirror, the person staring back at me isn’t the old April anymore.

It’s a brand-new me.

After fixing ourselves, we slip back into the party. The guests aren’t all staring at us, which is good: between the music, the soundproof doors, and the constant buzz of conversation, I doubt anyone truly heard us.

Unless they knew to listen, that is.

“Hi, there.”

Nora’s face is horrified. “You…!”

I ignore her and turn to Anne. “By the way, here you go. In case you run out of fabric next time you want to steal a design.”

I stuff my gift in her bag and sashay away on Matvey’s arm. “You didn’t,” he whispers into my ear as we leave.

“You bet your ass I did.”

I’m already halfway across the hall when I hear Anne’s scandalized scream. “EW! PANTIES!”

Whatever happens tonight, I’ve already won.

40

APRIL

At the first glimpse of the runway, all my brazenness goes flying out the proverbial window. “I’m gonna lose this thing so bad.”

Matvey shoots me a glare. “What did I just say?”

“‘Don’t insult my woman’s skill’?”

“So you do remember.”

Any other day, his concern would be touching. Kind of hot, too, if we’re being totally honest. But right now? I’m ready to throw up all over the front row from sheer anxiety.

“What if my dress wasn’t even picked for the runway?”

“Impossible.”

“I’m serious. There were, like, three hundred submissions this year. The fashion show’s only going to feature the top ten. There’s no way I made the cut, is there? And I was so smug with Anne, too. God, she will never let me live this down, will she? I?—”

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