Page 47 of Dirty Grovel

“I’m married,” Artem says coldly.

Murtagh looks confused by the concept. “So am I. What your wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

I can tell by the way his jaw is throbbing that Artem is very close to letting his polite act drop entirely.

I grip my friend’s shoulder. “We’ll let you get on with hosting, Murtagh. Don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“Anything for my main man.”

Once we’ve cleared Murtagh’s cringy presence, Artem and I find a quieter spot in the back of the yacht. We lean against the railing and look out into the open sea.

“Is this really the kind of life you want?” Artem asks, his tone curling with disgust. “Meaningless sex with underage bimbos? Throwing around money and power just because you can? Living the kind of hedonistic lifestyle that rots your soul and drains you of your humanity?”

“So much judgement from the party boy of Nassau.”

Artem rolls his eyes. “That was a long time ago,” he says. “And I was a single man then. In any case, I can speak to how empty that life is. It’s miserable.”

“You didn’t look very miserable at those yacht parties we used to throw.”

He punches me in the arm. “Make fun all you want. But sometimes, it takes finding meaning to realize how meaningless your life has been up until that point. Faye was my meaning. Sutton could be yours.”

My eyes flash to his. “Are we seriously on this topic again?”

“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself for what happened with Oriana and Elise, brother,” he says gently. “Denying yourself happiness is not going to bring them back.”

I push myself off the railing. “I think I need another drink,” I say coldly. “Excuse me.”

“Brother—” Artem calls after me but I ignore him and walk to the other side of the yacht.

Fucker thinks he knows me.

Well, he’s wrong. This is not about punishing myself. And it has absolutely nothing to do with Oriana or Elise.

This happens to be about trust and Sutton has wrecked mine.

It’s hard to find a quiet corner on this party yacht. I’m trying to block out the music when someone clears their throat right behind me.

I turn to find myself faced with a pretty blonde in a bright orange string bikini that barely covers her tits.

“Hi!” She gives me a shy wave. “I’m Roxy.”

I nod. “Hi, Roxy.”

“I needed some quiet. I’m guessing you wanted the same?” she asks, coming up and leaning against the railing next to me. “My friend is dating the owner of this yacht. I saw you talking to them earlier.”

“She has poor taste.”

Roxy giggles. “She’s never had much sense when it comes to men. She always picks the wrong ones.”

I narrow my eyes. “She’s eighteen years old. How many bad choices could she have made?”

“You’d be surprised.”

She turns towards me, breasts thrusted forward. It would have been hard to look away on a normal day.

But somehow, at this moment, it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“So… are you here alone or?—?”

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