Page 180 of Filthy Elites

“Good girl.” He runs his nose along the side of my face. “Let go, kitten, I’ve got you.”

I open my eyes and his are right there, boring into mine. He moves his hands to my hips, holding me up. The rush trickles over me, starting low and burning, rising as it spreads. Miller’s lips part, mimicking my shallow breaths, as though he’s going through this with me. I ball my fist between my legs and moan, allowing him to hold me up as I shatter into a million pieces.

“Beautiful.” He strokes my side, providing a strange soothing motion as I come back to my senses. “I knew you could do it—just needed a little help.”

He pinches my nipple again and straightens, walking over to grab the cup. I watch him, trying to regain my senses, level my breathing, as he walks out the door, leaving me with my pants and dignity on the floor.

FIFTEEN

Reagan

I know everyone thinks I’m a spoiled, entitled brat, but I can be grateful.

Today I am thankful simply for the fact I didn’t have to drink a cup of fratboy cum.

If that doesn’t say everything about my life right now, I don’t know what does.

I see him as I walk across campus, his tall, lanky body and mussed up hair. He catches my eye and jerks his chin toward the academic building.

I triple check the hallway before I enter the same closet we met in last time. Grayson is there, dressed in those work clothes that don’t make him look completely stupid, holding a cup of coffee. His eyes dart to my hair and his jaw drops.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” I rub my hand over the bristles. He hadn’t seen it yet. “Cutting edge, right?”

“It’s—”

“Awful. I know.”

“No. It’s—”

“Stop.” I gesture to the coffee. “Got extra?”

It takes him a second to drag his eyes away from the abomination that is my head, to thrust the cup toward me. “Oh, it’s for you.”

I take the cup, feeling the heat burn through the paper. “Really.”

“I figured you probably had a hard night.”

I narrow my eyes at the word ‘hard,’ wondering if that’s a double entendre. He stares back blankly, and I sigh. “Why would you think that?”

“I went through Zeta Sig initiation, Reagan. It’s mid-gauntlet. I know what happens.”

Does he though? Does he know what I went through? A girl forced to watch twelve guys wank into a cup. A novelty cup from a discount store? My cheeks heat just thinking about it and tears prick in my eyes. At the time, it was about survival, but now…

“Hey,” he says, expression softening, “what is it?”

“Nothing.” I wipe at my eyes and stare at the floor.

His hands cup my face, and he tilts my chin upward. “Tell me what happened.”

“What’s the point? I didn’t get any proof, so why does it matter?”

“The more information we have, the better, Reagan. I need everything.”

I look past the glasses into the dark brown of his eyes. There’s not a trace of meanness there and, right or wrong, it makes me feel safe. This whole week is about bonding and brotherhood. I’ve never felt so disconnected and unstable.

Grayson brushes a tear off my cheek with his thumb and I tell him everything that has happened the last few days—well, the official things. I still haven’t told him about Miller knowing my identity. As I describe the cocktail, the muscle in the back of his jaw tightens. He seems repulsed, maybe a little angry. The more I talk, the more horrified I feel. God, how could I sit through that? Why didn’t I leave?

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