Page 32 of The Tangle of Awful

“Maybe not to your sloppy standards,” I snip, waving a hand at her bed that shopping bags vomited clothes all over. “Definitely rifled through. I know it was you, so stop the bullshit. The question is why?”

This time, her eyes drop as she avoids my gaze, but that puts them on my pectoral muscles. Pink stains her cheeks and she drags her eyes up to meet mine again.

“I was looking for a pair of scissors to cut these tags off,” she lies, forcing a bitchy smile on her plump lips. “Happy?”

I grind my teeth together and shake my head, taking several long strides toward her until I’m towering over her. “You weren’t looking for scissors in my underwear drawer, leech.”

“Don’t call me that,” she spits out, lifting her chin. Fire blazes in her eyes.

“Maybe you’d prefer it if I called you Daddy’s Little Whore—”

Smack!

It takes me half a second to realize she slapped me. The sting doesn’t hurt but instead makes me want to return the swat. To her ass. My dick thickens at that thought. Annoyed at my body’s reaction, I grip her jaw, hoping to gain the upper hand in the situation.

“Hit me again,” I threaten, voice dripping in venom. “See what happens.”

Her nostrils flare and her eyes flash as she raises her hand. Before she can smack me again, I do something I’ve been thinking about for two long years.

I kiss her.

My lips crash to hers, a violent promise of a war I’ll undoubtedly win. The force of my unexpected kiss has her stumbling back a step, lips parting on a shocked gasp. I take the moment to plunge my tongue into her mouth, greedily seeking hers. A soft moan whispers up her throat as I command her mouth with mine.

I don’t like or want Aubrey.

This kiss is a weapon to be used against her.

A reminder of who holds all the power.

Me.

I’m on to her slick games and duplicitous nature. Dad may be blind to what she’s doing, but I sure as hell am not. I know she’s been using men in LA, leaving a path of destruction along the way.

I won’t let her burrow herself into our world and destroy us too.

“Ahh,” she whimpers when my teeth tug a little too hard on her bottom lip.

Unable to stop myself, I soothe away the sting with my tongue and much softer kisses. My hand, of its own accord, slides away from her jaw and into her silky tresses. I grip her healthy ass cheek with my other, squeezing it to the point it might bruise. Another whimper—this one more pleasure-filled.

She hasn’t put up a fight or any effort to end our kiss, which means she’s used to her body being wielded as a weapon or tool.

I’m not like those brainless fucks in LA, though.

I know her true intentions.

“Spencer,” she murmurs, a half-hearted attempt to put a stop to what we’re doing. “We shouldn’t—”

My tongue dominates hers, effectively swallowing any words she was trying to speak. I kiss her deeply and almost punishing. The craving to leave some sort of mark—mental or physical or emotional—drives me to keep inhaling and devouring her.

I’m hard in my jeans, cock straining against the denim and pressing into her stomach. It’s not enough. I need more from her. I need everything from her.

Briefly, I pull away, breaking our kiss so that I can push her body down onto the pile of clothes on the bed. I’m lured in by her swollen, red lips that are parted and begging for more. For a moment, I lose sight of the purpose of this kiss and pounce on her, hungry for another taste.

With her pinned beneath me, I’m able to wrench her thigh aside and grind against her pussy through our clothes. Her gasp is a mixture of delight and horror, both of which serve to make me impossibly harder. I nip at her bottom lip, more gently than last time, and work my hips until I find the spot that makes her groan.

“You fucking like this,” I mutter against her lips. “Me dry fucking you over your sugar daddy’s gifts.”

She grips at my damp hair, drawing me closer. “Shut up.”

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