Page 20 of Mischievous Lies

I fist the edges of my nightgown as he flicks his tongue faster, his strong hands pinning me in place.

It feels like I’m struck by lightning, the orgasm tearing out of me as I crash over the edge. I cling to his forearms, needing something to anchor me as I buck against him. He’s stroking me from the inside with his tongue as if entitled to my every wave of pleasure. My head thumps back against the floor as I ride it out, wriggling against his mouth, trying to bring myself back into the here and now.

His tongue strokes become lazy as my breathing begins to steady.

My eyes burst open, and I stare at the ceiling, noticing the steam circling the room and how hot it is in here. The water hitting the marble floor of the shower comes back into focus as I come down from my high.

I feel the disconnect the moment his mouth leaves my pussy, and I raise up onto my elbows. He’s on his knees, staring at thefloor, most likely trying to figure out how he can stand without slipping again. The image of him falling on his ass flashes in my mind, and I burst out into laughter again.

“You laugh, but shouldn’t you be thanking me?” he asks with furrowed eyebrows.

I realize I might’ve hurt his male pride. But that makes me laugh even harder. I scoot backward, out of his reach. He tries to grab me, but slips in the oil again. I snort, trying my hardest not to laugh. I use the counter to help me stand and shift the nightgown over my body to cover my nakedness. But even when I’m covered, it does nothing to deter that burning gaze.

“Thanks for your service. Show yourself out,” I say, trying to contain the laugh at the idea of how he’ll get up and out of the bathroom without slipping all over the place. “And I suggest you leave quickly, or I’ll tell Daddy Walker you broke into my home.”

Any desire falls from his expression as his eyes grow wide. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I’d dare,” I say matter-of-factly. I don’t know why my father hates Hawke, but he always has, and he refuses to do any work if it’s directly for Hawke. He’s the only one he won’t help, which is why Hawke comes to me. But it makes me laugh how quickly Hawke pales at the thought of my father. Hawke is literally double the size of my father, but he acts like a boy at the mere mention of him.

I have oil over my body, but I don’t have it on my feet, which means I have the advantage that I can leave the room. After throwing on some dry clothes, I grab my coat and keys, knowing if I stay, it’ll be more than him just tongue fucking me. So I decide to go to my parents’ house, since they’re traveling, to take advantage of their shower.

As I leave, I tap away at my phone, and by the time I reach the door, the power cuts out, and I smile triumphantly. Sure, I might be leaving my apartment, but there’s fuck all he can dohere without any power. Besides, I’m certain the threat of my father knowing he’s in my apartment will have him hightailing out in no time.

CHAPTER 13

Ivy

Hawke: Do you know how many times I slipped because of that oil?! Water and oil do not mix.

That was the last message I received from Hawke. It’s been two days, and I haven’t bothered to reply. But it amuses me to think about how many times he landed on his ass, spread eagle.

My father presses a kiss on my mother’s cheek as she shows me her recent design for a new office in Dubai. I’ve only partied in Dubai a few times, but if Mom’s setting up there for a few months, I might have an excuse to join her. For moral support, of course.

My mother has continued building her interior design empire over the years and is excited to create a new office space. She’s selective when it comes to the projects she personally takes on. While she loves her work, she and my father also enjoy the freedom to flit off on trips whenever they please. They’re the ones who’ve curated my unquenchable thirst for travel. Though we spent most of my early childhood in Manhattan, we also often traveled to London, the two main office locations my mother worked out of as she continued expanding her business.

My mother’s lips curve into a smile as she gazes up at my father, who’s sporting a few more grays lately. I enjoy giving him shit for it, and I’m certain the only reason he hasn’t dyed his hair out of vanity is because my mother said she likes the silver fox look.

“This is the new space I’m drafting,” she says, handing me the tablet. I zoom in on the design. It’s elegant and unique.

“It looks nice,” I tell her, enjoying my chai tea. “The staircase is cool.”

She smiles, and my father quickly says, “The stairs were my idea.”

“Yes, good job, dear.” She pats his head, and I roll my eyes at how he enjoys the obvious praise.

My parents have a beautiful marriage. They’re one another’s best friends, and I grew up in a household that prioritized freedom to have fun. It’s mostly where I learned to become mischievous and a slight prankster. But on top of that, they always spoke to me like an adult, educating me on anything that piqued my interest and encouraging my excitement around certain subjects. I was like a sponge.

I’m not opposed to the idea of having a partner in crime, like they have with each other. There just hasn’t been a man who can keep my attention long enough for me to even consider not being able to live without them. It’d be nice to have a man look at me the way my father looks at my mother—with undeniable devotion and respect.

Men worship me, but it’s only surface-level. They worship my body, which, up until now, has been perfect for my needs. Until that changes, I’m going to continue to live life the way I want to live it. People judge me, sure. But the fact of the matter is, I don’t really care. The only opinions I care about are those of the people who love me. One of my favorite quotes goes along the lines of:everyone has an opinion, just like they have an asshole. It’s kind of become my mantra in life.

I finish the chai tea as I make a couple of tweaks and suggestions to the office design. I don’t have an eye like my mother, but it’s almost encouraged that my father and I make minor contributions. Every time she keeps a suggestion of ours, I think it’s her way of having a little bit of us and her home in each project.

“Any recent conquests?” my mother asks, and she always purposely does it in front of my father. It’s been an ongoing joke for years now to make him uncomfortable with those types of questions. He groans in complaint.

Out of nowhere, the memory of Hawke between my legs flashes into my mind, and I’m quick to push it away. I haven’t seen him since he broke into my apartment. And I’ve been doing my best to avoid him, simply for the fact that I can’t get him out of my head, which is torturous and all-consuming. I sometimes contemplate making a friends-with-benefits arrangement with him, but I feel if I say anything, it will boost his ego even more. And anyone who meets him already knows how big his ego is, and he doesn’t need anyone to stroke it for him.

I’ve also managed to keep myself from hacking into cameras again, not only because he knows I was doing it but because I think I need to separate myself from him.

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