Page 75 of Obsessed Heir

I toss the book onto the bed, not caring where it lands. Then I pull at the knot of my tie, yanking it free from around my collar only to toss it toward the couch. It lands on the shirt I discarded earlier, the crisp white fabric marred with smears of Abigail’s makeup.

I’m immediately assaulted by vivid flashes of her in my mind’s eye again.

Abigail, sitting across my legs, subservient.

Abigail, lying across me, my hand covering the curve of her ass.

And, of course, how we ended, with Abigail straddling me, my fingers on her drenched pussy. Her hands are on my chest. She’s biting her lip. She’s clenching her thighs, her nails digging into me as she’s hit with an orgasm that has her back arching beautifully.

What’s worse, the conniving little bitch tasted so fucking sweet.

I wrench the buttons on my coat open, trying to ignore, if not erase, the memory. If that whole thing was merely an act to seduce me, she deserves a goddamn Oscar for her performance.

My jacket lands on top of the shirt and tie, for good measure. I don’t need it tormenting me any more than it already has. What I should have done was hit the gym instead of coming straight back here. Any exertion that’ll help me work off some of this restless, pent-up energy burning inside me.

It’s too late to head back across the ship. I’ll have to settle for a shower then see if I can get some sleep. I’ll decide what to do about Abigail in the morning, when I can think more rationally.

The blast of hot water pounds over my head and shoulders. It does little to loosen the tension coiled in my muscles. Making quick work of my bath, I turn the handle, ending the spray, and step out onto the plush bath mat.

I give my damp hair a vigorous toweling then drag it across my chest and back before wrapping the terry cloth around my waist. I don’t bother with a brush, just rake my fingers through my hair so it doesn’t come down to my face.

In the bedroom, I pull the covers back and drop onto the mattress. While I lost the feeling of being caged, my annoyance hasn’t gone away completely.

I need food and a stiff drink. Maybe two. Maybe five. Maybe I just needed to bury myself in that sweet pussy and pound into her until I don’t give a damn about anything else.

Determined to get this out of my system, I yank the door open to grab some ice from the freezer and come up short.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Abigail

Drawing in a breath, I curl my toes and cautiously peek into the hallway. The suite is quiet, so we’re likely alone. With my heart racing, I step out into the dimly lit corridor. If I wait to get my nerves under control, I’ll stay here forever.

I tiptoe down the corridor, my bare feet sinking into the thick carpet, muffling my steps. Coming up on Miss Opal’s door, I pause, straining to hear any sign she might still be awake. The faint sound of a soft snoring drifts through the door, and I relax slightly.

I continue, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. She’d be horrified to know she was snoring, her delicate sensibilities offended by her body betraying her with such an unladylike sound.

Reaching the kitchenette, I hesitate, resting my hand on the cool marble countertop. Once I go into the hall, there’s noturning back. A shiver runs down my spine, a mixture of fear and exhilaration I can’t explain.

I know he’s not here, but the memory of his strong hands, his fingers stroking me intimately, sends a rush of heat coursing through me. I can almost feel his touch, the way he set my nerve endings on fire with the intimate caress.

Shaking off the distracting flashback, I tighten the ends of the belt on my robe. This time, it’s a single loop instead of a double knot, so I don’t have to fuss with it when I go to change.

Gathering my courage, I step forward, turning the corner as my heartbeat echoes in my temples.

The hallway’s dark, the rich scent of wood surrounding me again. This side of the suite feels utterly masculine. Is it because Barron sleeps here? Is it because of what happened in the last bedroom earlier today? In my mind, both will be tied together for eternity.

Glancing over my shoulder, I bite my lip and rethink this plan. Though the hall’s empty, maybe I should have turned on the light in the kitchen. Even the spillover would be better than nothing. But I have no idea where to find the switch.

The distinct click of a door handle breaks the silence. I stop in my tracks, my heart jumping into my throat. I turn around so fast I may end up with whiplash.

Barron’s standing in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space, a hand on the knob. His bare chest is a wall of muscles, the smooth expanse interrupted by dark ink stretching out to decorate his shoulder.

The sight of him, his hair tousled, a towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, ignites a fire inside me. My gaze travels lower, taking in how the towel is pulled tight over the bulge at his crotch, the fabric straining against his obvious arousal.

Was it only a few hours ago I was naked beside him, that thick member pressing against the curve of my spine? The memory sends a fresh wave of moisture trickling from deep within me.

Barron shifts his weight, releasing the door as he steps forward. The movement draws my attention to his face, to the hard set of his lips, then the furrow of his brow.

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