Page 3 of The Way You Hurt Me

He likely doesn’t know I already started college last month. I also had enough AP credits to skip a full semester. With the workload I’m taking, I’ll be done with my undergraduate in two years, three max.

That might as well be in a million years, and I want himnow. Now that I've consciously admitted it to myself, I can't stop thinking about it. Him grunting andplowing intome, not Morgan.

Maybe I shouldn’t have thoughts like that about an actual man. But I’ve been younger than my schoolmates as long as I can remember, and I tend to hang out with my sister’s friends rather than people my age. I don’t think I’ve ever fancied anyone my own age. Have I actually even talked to a sixteen-year-old? Not since I was thirteen, in all probability.

Dimitri isn’t Camden, though. He isn’t Morgan’s friend, Damian, or Camden’s cousin, Rhys. He’s twenty-seven. He owns a business, and has his own house—not to mention the vacation house where we’re standing right now. He’s so far out of my league he might as well be in another universe.

But he’s acknowledging me. He gave me cake, and talked to me after I saw something he likely thought shocked me to make sure I was fine. He’s descended from Olympus to acknowledge me, poor mortal that I am.

And now that he’s at my level, I want to feel him so badly I can nearly taste it.

So I take it.

I grab his hand, tug him until he turns, and I bring my lips to his in a crushing kiss.

1

DIMITRI

Inotice her from the moment she approaches the open-plan lounge on the tiptoes of her tiny feet. I wouldn’t have survived this long without being aware of my surroundings.

One glimpse, and I know just who’s watching us from the shadow. The kid. Shit, that can’t be good. Out of everyone crashing in my holiday villa for Cam’s wedding, this was the most inappropriate person who could have watched the groom and I nail the bride. How old is she, again? I can’t tell.

I’d say around sixteen or so. Too young to be peering at this, that’s for sure; but well, I’d certainly seen my fair share of action at that age.

There are sixteen-year-olds that look like they’re still playing with Barbie and there are sixteen-year-olds who wouldn’t be out of place in a lineup of college girls.Morgan’s kid sister is somewhere in between. I definitely would expect my bartenders to card her before handing her a beer in one of my clubs.But I also wouldn’t blink if they handed her one after she flashed a fake ID.

I consider alerting the happy couple that our fun little threesome is no longer private, but that’ll be way too embarrassing for all parties involved, especially the poor kid, who’sstillwatching. I would have thought she would have run back upstairs, but no; the little pervert’s either too shocked or too interested to budge.

So, I just ignore her, and get on with it.

Morgan’s a fun lay, if a little too pliant for my taste. I prefer to have a challenge. But she fits Cam perfectly. She comes first, and when her ass and cunt both tighten around our cocks, Cam and I are pushed over the edge in sync, grunting in satisfaction. The corner of my lips hikes up when I hear a tiny little gasp coming from the alcove near the mini-bar. It’s too quiet for the happy couple to notice above their panting, but aware of her presence as I am, I can’t miss it.

"Go get your beauty sleep, kids," I tell the bride and groom them. "Long day tomorrow."

"Don't lose the rings," Camden jokes.

I walk towards the bar, subtly blocking that path, so Morgan and Cam make their way up through the kitchen’s entrance, rather than approaching our little Peeping Tom. Seconds stretch as I listen to their giggles and footsteps.

"You can come out now, petal."

What is her name again? Not a flower, but definitely something hippy.An herb, maybe? Or a tree?

Skylar?

Briar?

No, though both would have worked, with those messy reddish waves.

The girl peeks from behind the column where she’s been hiding, shyly twirling one of her curls around her finger, looking the picture of a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Jesus, she’s a baby.

"Watched your fill?" I ask, pouring myself a drink.

I don’t know why I’m calling her out on it. It might have been a better idea for both of us to ignore this entirely. But the poor kid likely has tons of questions right about now, and she’s going to be scarred for life if she doesn’t get them out. I opt to stay put, to let her process what she walked into. Maybe I’ll save her some time spent on a shrink’s sofa if she can get it out now.

"Don't tell Morgan," she blurts out, flushing.

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