Page 513 of Filthy Elites

How can I hate this man so much and still react to him so strongly? I live with three other incredibly hot guys, and today a cute football player suggested we have sex and my body was tied down tighter than a submissive in a BDSM book. But apparently the moment my tormentor, my jailer, the man who is the cause of all of the absolute worst times in my life steps into the room, I’m practically flooded with arousal.

My panties are damp and I know without looking that my nipples have tightened and pebbled in reaction to his nearness. Every single orgasm I’ve had in the last two and a half years has either been given by him, or was a direct result of fantasizing about him.

But while I’m creating a lake between my legs, he has barely glanced in my direction. He’s unaffected, completely disinterested. He knows I’m here, I saw him look at me and then look away as if I’m not worth even a second glance.

Two weeks ago his cock was inside of me, tearing through my virginity and using me in a way no one has ever done before. The things he said to me that night—that I was his, that my cunt, my mouth, my ass all belonged to him, that l was his cum slut, that all his seed was for me—and now I’m nothing.

Nothing.

Maybe I am nothing to him now. I’m sure I’m not the first girl to lose her virginity to the oh-so-great Sebastian Lockwood. But no, he said I was his obsession, told me over and over that I was his, that I belonged to him. If that was true, how can he be so disinterested?

“Someone grab drinks,” Hunter says, pulling me from my angry internal rant.

“I’ll get them, what does everyone want?” I ask.

There’s a chorus of, “Beer please,” from them all so I pad to the drinks cooler and take out four beers and a bottle of the strawberry wine cooler I had earlier.

“Jesus, sis, got to say, as your brother I am not loving those shorts, your ass is hanging out of them,” Evan laughs.

“It’s a good thing you’re not really my brother and that I don’t care what you think of my clothes,” I snark back, putting the drinks on the table and taking the empty seat between Clay and Evan, directly opposite Sebastian.

My gaze finds his, expecting to see his anger over Evan’s comment about my ass, or the fact that his friends have seen me in these tiny shorts that are incredibly small and tight, but his expression is completely bland and his lack of reaction makes me furious.

TWENTY-ONE

Sebastian

Not punchingEvan in the face and draggingmylittle bird back upstairs to rip those fucking shorts off her and spank her ass until it’s hot and red and she knows never to put herself on display for other men’s eyes ever again, is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

My eye is twitching with the concentration I’m having to exert to keep my expression neutral and disinterested, to not stare at her with all the anger and frustration and need I’m actually feeling from being this close to her.

My brothers keep checking on me, waiting for me to lose my shit, but I won’t. They all believe what I told her, that I’m sorry; that she’s free, that I’ll stay away. I needed them to believe. After all, if I can sell this bullshit to them, my closest, my family, then I can convince her it’s true too.

I understand why they buckled, why they turned on me and urged me to release my little bird. A part of me actually appreciates how they stood against me and defended her, but if they really thought I could walk away, that I could let her live her life without me in it, then they’re idiots.

Starling Kennedy is mine and nothing, not them, or their guilt, or even her can change that.

She’s wearing the shirt that I bought her, the one I made her take off because it showed more of her tits than it actually covered. It’s the first time she’s worn anything from the closetful of clothes I picked for her. That’s how I know she’s dressed just for me. She’s wearing those ridiculous booty shorts and that shirt to provoke a reaction from me.

I saw the way she reacted to my dismissal earlier. She may hate me, but she loathes being ignored by me even more. If I really was leaving her alone like I promised I would, I’d have to leave, or make her leave. There’s no way I could be around her and not have her be mine.

But this outfit tonight, her having dinner with us, it’s her joining the game. Those shorts, that shirt, it’s her taking the first shot, detonating the first bomb. It’s game on and I’m playing to win, because she’s the prize and this time, once I have her, I’ll never let go.

TWENTY-TWO

Starling

I hate him.

I really hate him, more than I hated him when he took over my life when we were in high school. More than when he manipulated our families and ruined my and my mom’s relationship. More than when he revealed he’d orchestrated me being here in this house, under his thumb.

Somehow, being ignored by him makes me hate him a thousand times harder than ever before and I hate that more than anything else.

The day after we all had dinner together, I ate breakfast in the kitchen, taking Hunter up on his offer to make pancakes. Sebastian came into the room, lifted his chin in greeting and then proceeded to text on his cell phone for the entire length of time it took him to eat, then he left without uttering another word or looking at me again.

Two days later, I came downstairs wearing nothing but a towel and then proceeded to stretch up to the highest cabinet to reach down a glass I didn’t need, but instead of fuming over my near nakedness, by the time I turned around he had his cell to his ear speaking to someone on the other end as he left the room.

He’s made it clear that whatever he thought he felt for me, he doesn’t feel anymore and instead of being relieved, I’m livid.

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