“Oh, you definitely are. Then join me.” She slides off the bed, her long, elegant limbs reminding me of art in motion. “I’ll wash you, and you can wash me.”
“I’ll wash you first.” I follow after her as she darts into the bathroom, my hand going to her perfect ass and giving one rounded cheek a slap, the sound echoing off the tile. She yelps.
I growl.
What the fuck am I doing?
Forty
Summer
When things feel too good to be true, that usually means they are. And what is unfolding between Whit and I is absolutely a lie waiting to be revealed. We spend the week together at the Lancaster estate, sneaking off where we can, messing around in every room, on every available surface. It’s not easy. There are so many rooms. So many places to sneak away. But he’s persistent. He fucks me everywhere. In every way he can. My thigh muscles ache from being spread so wide all the time. My mouth is sore from all the kissing and the blow jobs.
But I’m not complaining.
Our sneaking around is difficult, considering there are so many people in this house. Servants, everywhere. Staff. Assistants. Parents. Sylvie. Spencer.
He came to the Michaels’ party, brought Sylvie home and never left. Their parents didn’t bat an eyelash at Spencer’s arrival. It was all explained under the guise of, “Sylvie brought a friend so Whit did too,” which is absolute garbage.
I am here for Whit. And Spence is here for Sylvie.
Guilt swamps me every time I think about how I abandoned my friend, but she never gives me a chance to talk to her about it. She avoids me. Every time we’re around each other, she ignores me, focusing all of her attention on Whit, or Spence, or whoever else is nearby.
Never me.
Until Thursday morning. Thanksgiving Day. I find Sylvie downstairs in a sitting room that looks out over the enormous back yard, sipping on a latte someone made for her.
The true princess. The future queen. Ah, to be a Lancaster. To have everything done for you, mapped out for you, so you don’t have to lift a finger or even so much as think.
“There you are,” I say cheerily as I enter the room. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Oh?” Her tone is guarded, making me halt. “I figured you were in search of my brother. Or have you two finally grown sick of each other after the constant fucking all week?”
Her words feel like a slap. I go to her, sitting in the chair across from hers. “You’re mad at me.”
“Of course, I’m mad at you. You were my guest first.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I told you I needed you. That I didn’t want you to leave my side, and you did. I know why you came with me—to spend time with Whit.”
The guilt is like a heavy, wet blanket. Settling over me, making me weary. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my true intention. Whit and I had sort of split—”
“I don’t care what you and Whit have done. Or haven’t done. Though I’m assuming from all the gossip I hear from the servants, you two have done everything.” She sends me a look, her upper lip curling in disgust. “They all talk about you, you know. I suppose changing cum-stained sheets every day builds resentment.”
I refuse to let her embarrass me. Instead of going into defensive mode, I remain quiet. She contemplates me, reminding me of her brother as she studies me, until she finally sighs.
“Since your swift abandonment left me completely alone in this hell hole, I had to re-strategize. It’s why I convinced Spence to stay with us. Not like he was doing anything for the holiday. Probably would’ve snorted too much coke and fucked too many wannabe models if he’d remained in the city,” Sylvie says bitterly.
Still, I say nothing, wondering if they’ve had sex yet.
I’m guessing no.
“Whit is overwhelming, I get it. And from what I hear, he’s completely enamored with you,” Sylvie says, her tone haughty.
I frown. “What did you hear?”
“At Leighton’s party, the gossip was rampant. Everyone witnessed that peculiar discussion between Monty and Whit,” Sylvie says, looking down her nose at me. “How in the world did you get Monty on your side so quickly?”
“He found me crying after he had a tryst with some unknown jock who enjoys sucking his dick,” I tell her truthfully.
Sylvie bursts out laughing, and hearing it gives me hope. “I can hear Monty say that. I’m sure it was Ty Peters. He’s so over the top with his maleness, it wouldn’t surprise me at all that he enjoys a dick in his mouth on occasion.”
I have no idea who he is, and it doesn’t matter. I can’t get past how I hurt Sylvie’s feelings, and how badly I need her forgiveness. She’s only ever been kind to me. One of the only people at the entirety of Lancaster Prep who has.
“I hate that I disappointed you,” I tell her, my voice soft. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sylvie. It’s just—”
“Boys. They’re infuriating and wonderful, all at once. Aren’t they? And please, I need no details when it comes to you and my brother,” she says. “I’ve heard enough already.”
“How are you and Spence this week? Enjoying each other’s company?” I ask, changing the subject.
“I wish we were having as much fun as you two are having,” she says drolly, just before I see a flicker of disappointment in her gaze. “He’s terrified of me.”
“What? How?”
“Scared I’ll break. I’m fragile, don’t you know.”
“You’re the one who always talks about dying,” I remind her.
A sigh leaves her and she sips from her latte. “I suppose I can’t win.”
I watch her continue sipping from the delicate cup, then turn my gaze to the window. It’s a sunny morning, but the wind is whipping the trees, making them sway wildly. I see two male figures standing out in the distance. Similar heights. Their heads bent close together. At first, I think it’s Whit and Spence.
But no, it’s Whit and his father.
Frowning, I tear my gaze away from them, trying to ignore the sudden lump in my stomach. We sit in silence, Sylvie scrolling on her phone and drinking her coffee. Me chewing on my thumbnail as I watch Whit talk to his father. I can’t see their faces from this distance, but they both seem tense. It scares me.
I can’t look away, filled with worry. His father has great influence over him. Of course, he does. Augustus Lancaster is a powerful man, and Whit is heir to the Lancaster name. He will do whatever his father asks, no question.
“He doesn’t approve,” Sylvie says out of nowhere.
Whit takes a step back, and even from this distance, I can tell he’s angry. His body is rigid, his mouth open. As if he can’t stop talking. Or he might even be yelling. “Who doesn’t approve?”
“My father. He doesn’t approve of you. And he definitely doesn’t approve of you and Whit together.” I glance over at Sylvie to find her watching me, her lips pursed, her eyes wide. “Not sure if he approves of you as a friend of mine either.”
Unease slips over me. “What are you saying, Sylvie?”
She sets the cup onto the tiny table beside her chair, regarding me with a look of pity in her eyes. “My parents gave me a little lecture this morning at breakfast.”