Page 25 of Dirty Deal

But will that be enough? No, never.

I need her heart, her trust, and her love too. And to fuck her again and again, in every possible position and location, until Lena’s body is imprinted on mine.

How do I get there? It seems an impossible leap. Like staring across a ravine to paradise, and knowing that if I dare to jump, I’ll tumble down to the jagged rocks below.

“Tomorrow,” I grate out, my wrist starting to ache as I pump steadily inside her. I ignore the dull pain, and when I add a second finger, Lena muffles another groan. “Let me fuck you tomorrow, baby. Let me spread you out on my desk and make you mine.”

“That…” Lena’s forehead is hot as she rests it against my throat, and her whole body trembles as my hand works her. Thrusting and rubbing at her clit in a merciless rhythm. “That wasn’t our deal.”

“No. It wasn’t. So if you let me do it, I guess that means you want me too.”

Lena stiffens and lets out a wounded noise. Her channel clamps down on my fingers, muscles twitching around them as she comes and comes, silent pleasure wracking her slender frame. I kiss her temple and keep working her through it, teasing every last drop of pleasure from her body.

Lena doesn’t realize it yet, but there’s more than our bargain at stake now.

I’m not playing to torture her and let her go.

I’m playing to keep her forever.

Eleven

Lena

When I get home just after midnight, the townhouse lights are on again. Dread pools in my stomach as I slide my key into the front door, but there’s no anticipation. Not really. I already know what I’ll find past the threshold.

The door swings open. My heels click softly against the marble foyer floor, and I tug the belt of my trench coat loose with a sigh as the front door clicks shut behind me. Voices murmur in the kitchen. Music plays softly too, drifting through the townhouse, along with the scent of another luxurious dinner.

Yup.

They’ve done it again. Ordered expensive take-out from one of the finest restaurants in the city, because as far as the Merritts are concerned, that is their due.

No need to go and double check. No need to confirm what I already know, what I should have figured out a year ago: my parents will never change.

Not until some outside forcemakesthem change.

For their sakes, I hope the reckoning isn’t deadly.

My stomach churns as I climb the townhouse stairs, too sick with the thought of hammers and kneecaps and my stupid, proud parents getting taught the harshest lesson of all. I love them, but after everything they’ve said and done… I hate them, too. Still, I don’t want to see them hurt.

That won’t happen. Not this time, anyway—not after my deal with Weston pays out. But after this week… my parents are on their own.

I can’t save them from themselves. It’s not my job, and I’m done trying.

The beige carpet in my bedroom is thick, my heels sinking as I step inside. I kick my heels off and sling my trench coat over a cushioned chair by the door.

Even though I grew up in this room, spent years of my life in this space, it’s never felt likemine.It’s always been blandly beautiful—the work of an interior decorator. Fine furniture and neutral tones. There’s no hint of me in this bedroom.

There are no cringey teenage posters on the walls; no photos of my school friends taped to the mirror. No bright colors or roller blades or spots of nail polish on the carpet.

Before I went to Switzerland, I never noticed how claustrophobic this room feels. How hard it is to breathe here.

Since coming back… well, I can’t rent my own place soon enough. And no, I willnottake my parents with me. They took that offer and threw it back in my face.

My bare feet sink into the carpet as I cross to the en suite bathroom, tugging my dress over my head as I go. It’s a perverse pleasure to drop it in the middle of the floor, breaking up the sea of flawless beige.

Inside the bathroom, I set the shower running and stare at myself in the mirror. My lips are bitten red, swollen and sensual. My dark hair is mussed. There’s a soft patch of pink behind myear on the left side, where Weston’s stubble abraded the delicate skin.

Weston.

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