Page 117 of The Rivals' Touch

Bennett’s living room is light and spacious, with tall windows and modern gray couches that look as pristine today as five years ago. The cushions are plumped to perfection, and the magazines on the coffee table are there for show unless Mr. Beaufort has developed an interest in interior design.

“Come here, beautiful girl!” Bennett’s father says to me, patting the space next to him on the couch when I enter the room. My own dad sits in a chair across from the coffee table. In his hand is an unlit cigar.

He gestures to Mr. Beaufort and says to me, “Don’t leave him waiting.”

I look over at Bennett, but he’s busy scrolling on his phone like this is normal. “Bennett?” I whisper, searching for an ounce of compassion inside him but coming up blank. He pockets his phone and leans back on the couch. He doesn’t even look at me.

I slowly walk over to Mr. Beaufort and lower myself down next to him with my heart in my throat. No words can express how my skin crawls when he brushes my hair from my shoulder with his fingers and says, “Such a pretty, young lady. My son is lucky.”

Bennett looks bored. He places his foot on the edge of the coffee table and drums his fingers on his jean-clad thigh. He still has his shoes on.

His father’s touch moves lower, sliding the strap of my dress down off my shoulder.

I’m stiff, staring at a point on the cream rug while his hands burn my skin, and not in a pleasant way.

“You won’t disappoint us again, will you?” he whispers, trailing his hand over to my other shoulder, sliding down the strap.

I shake my head.

“Good!”

I’ve had countless dinners with Bennett’s father, and he’s attended more basketball games than I can count, but I never noticed this side of him. I took him for a nice family man, not an asshole with a taste for young women. I should have known differently. He’s as brutal as my father, or he wouldn’t have made it to the top. He gets what he wants by taking, not asking.

The cold air hits my skin as my dress slides lower, revealing my naked chest. My father takes a sip of his scotch and winks at me over the rim while Mr. Beaufort palms my breast and kneads the sensitive flesh.

I fight the urge to slap his hand away, knowing it would only land me in more trouble.

“She’s bruised.”

My father lowers his glass and clears his throat. “I had to discipline her for her indiscretion.”

“Very good!” Bennett’s father rolls my nipple between his finger and thumb and leans in, tickling the skin on my neck with his wiry mustache. “Such a precious gem.” He grabs my hand and flattens it over the bulge in his suit pants, squeezing his dick. “That’s it,” he breathes, letting go of my hand to lower his zipper. “Nice and slow!” He guides my hand inside his boxers and wraps it around his hard length.

I squeeze my eyes shut as he grunts against my neck and whispers, “What a good little whore you are!”

Amused, my father chuckles, and the ice in his glass clinks against the sides.

“Down on your knees, my sweet girl!” Mr. Beaufort orders, pushing on my shoulders until my knees sink into the cream rug. He leans forward and grabs his scotch glass off the table. Holding it up in the air, he says to the servant standing by the door, “Refill, please.”

Bennett smirks at me as a servant walks over with a decanter and refills his father’s empty glass. Bennett’s blue eyes are devoid of emotion. The boy I fell in love with never existed. It was a charade, a trap to lure me in, and it worked. I was his for two years, blissfully unaware of what lurked beneath the surface of his perfect smile.

Mr. Beaufort frees his dick and fists my hair painfully. The hard head of his cock prods my lips, seeking entrance.

There are always consequences. It’s time to face yours.

“There’s a good girl,” Bennett’s father praises, bucking his hips when I wrap my lips around the bulbous head. Darkness descends on my soul like storm clouds over rough seas. “I think this business deal between us will work out after all,” he tells my father, tightening his grip on my hair.

Thick and heavy cigar smoke fills the air, and the rich scent embeds itself in my flaring nostrils like oriental spices at a summer market.

“Excellent.” My father’s voice is dark and smooth. Proud even. “That’s what I like to hear.”

* * *

There’s a soft knock on my door. I stay in bed, staring at the tree whipping in the wind. I can’t see the stars for the clouds, and the air is thick with impending rain. I’ve left my window open because the charged atmosphere makes me feel less claustrophobic.

There’s another knock.

“Go away!”

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