Page 12 of The Arrogant One
But I could tell she was close to having one—by her breathing, by her moaning, by the way she was stabbing her nails into the skin around my wrist.
Even though I had all intentions, I still wanted to play, so I said, “Do you think I should let you come?”
“Yes,” she cried.
“I don’t know …”
“Lockhart, don’t you dare stop?—”
Her voice cut off when I increased the speed once again, my finger pounding into her, my thumb circling.
It only took a block.
And the second my front tires were passing through the next light, she was shouting, “Yes,” and writhing and shuddering. “Oh, yes—ah!”
I took a peek. I had to. And, fuck, she looked even more gorgeous than I’d thought she would with her hair just as wildas I’d imagined and her lips open and a feral look owning her expression.
“Hell yes, you’re giving me everything I want,” I told her. “So wet. So tight.”
I slowed as much as I could without asking her to shift. And when I was sure she was done, I carefully pulled my fingers away and stepped on the clutch, getting the car into the right gear before I licked her wetness off my skin.
“Shit, you taste good.” I glanced at her. “I need more of that on my tongue. One taste wasn’t enough.”
She bit her lip as she slid her dress down. “Are we at the hotel?”
“We are.” I turned the wheel and pulled up to the entrance, where the valet attendants were waiting. “You finished just in time.” As I came to a stop, I sucked off the last of her from my hand. “Just so you know, that was only the beginning. Upstairs, in my room, you’re going to get a lot more. And you’re going to get it again and again.”
She smiled. “That good girl I mentioned before? I think she just got a sample of being bad.”
“Do you like this new side of you?”
Even in the darkness, I saw the heat spread across her cheeks.
“I think so.”
“Being bad was step one. Naughty is next.”
TWO
Sadie
Lockhart had a penthouse suite at the Cole and Spade Hotel—the most luxurious hotel chain in the world. He drove an R8. There was a Breitling Premier Tourbillon watch on his wrist, worth over fifty thousand—I only knew because I’d recently attended an event and Breitling was a sponsor—with a black leather band and a silver face. He wore a sports jacket over his striped button-down, jeans that were the right kind of fitted—not ones he’d have to peel off, but ones that showed just how muscular his legs were—and leather loafers.
Details that, to me, screamed money.
There was quite a difference between new money and old. The two had distinct flavors.
New was someone who drove the cheapest Range Rover that had been made just to have “that kind” of vehicle, they had the diamond-encrusted watch band, an outfit where the label was either visible or the designer’s name was printed somewhere on the clothes. They wanted to be seen.
Old money—they were already seen.
They chose speed and performance over the manufacturer’s name, they preferred the sophistication of leather to the bling of diamonds, their labels stayed hidden, but tucked beneath that collar was a brand that came with a several-thousand-dollar price tag.
Lockhart was old money.
Which raised the question,Who is this man?
Born and raised in LA and fairly active in the social scene, I knew names. I knew faces. But his wasn’t one I recognized.
