Chuckling, I wrap my fingers around her tiny palm, urging her to push harder as I rock my hips into her. Her swallow is audible, and she parts her legs—just slightly, but enough that I feel the shift.
“Interesting form of foreplay,” I murmur, biting back a moan as she swivels her pelvis up, meeting the roll of mine. “But you always were a bit murderous, weren’t you?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she says.
“I want to. Desperately.” Cocking my head to the side, I give it an incredulous shake, because I can’t believe the sentiment, nor that I’m admitting it.
“Because you think I’m weird?”
“Because I think you’re terrifying.”
With a sigh, she releases the pressure on the paintbrush, and I’m racked with the sudden, inexplicable urge to lean down and kiss her. To seal this night between us as some kind of monument, attaching it to our relationship indefinitely.
I dip down, allowing the tip of the brush to stay notched against my pec, and I don’t feel the movement of her free arm. My focus remains solely on her pretty, puffy lips, and the image of my cock sliding between them not even an hour ago takes root, blotting out all logical thought and self-awareness.
When the blunt object smacks into the side of my head, it takes a moment for the ringing in my ear to catch up with my sudden loss of vision. A grunt falls into the air, whisked away on a sea breeze, though I’m not sure who it belongs to.
The object comes down again, something dull but thick, and this time it sounds as if something in my skull cracks.
Pushing off of her, I clutch at the wound, my fingers coming away slick as I feel around beneath my hair. I’m too stunned to speak, and as soon as my eyes meet hers again, she manages to wiggle out from under me before I can comprehend what’s just happened.
A large rock falls to the ground in front of me as she jumps to her feet, and this time when she bolts, I let her.
25
My first thought is to run back into the beach house, but then I don’t want to think about how Jonas will retaliate. Attacking him was definitely not something I saw coming, but the urge to free myself became overwhelming, and my body moved before my brain could catch up.
Fight or flight kicked in, and any progress I’ve made at overcoming my issues seemed to take a complete back seat. The most impulsive of impulses—violence.
I duck past the back of the house and keep walking, through the fields of tall grass and wildflowers, the broken paintbrush wrapped tight in my fist. By the time I make it to the main road, my feet ache in my Prada flats and I’m shivering, even though it’s not actually that cold.
Shock seems to have a choke hold on my system, though, and when my feet touch the pavement, I just stand and stare at it for a few seconds. Definitely not a good idea coming out here alone, and while I could probably make it downtown by sunrise, I realize that I don’t really want to.
Turning around, I consider trying to retrace my steps and go back the way I came.
Maybe Jonas won’t be angry.
Biting my lip, I touch the cut on my forehead, wincing as it smarts.
Sure, Len. He’ll probably welcome you back with open arms.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open up my contacts and hit Cash’s name first. Even though he’s back in Boston, he’s the most likely to be awake right now, and the most likely to come get me.
He doesn’t answer.
Headlights shine against me as I hit Palmer’s number, and my stomach flip-flops as I wait to see what the car does. Tension clogs my throat as it passes, fear that whoever was at the house has followed me, but they don’t even slow down.
Heaving a sigh of relief, I bring the phone back to my ear and get Palmer’s voice mail.
I can’t call my parents. They’d never let me live it down, and Daddy would have me moved back into the mansion before lunch. Mama would use this as another opportunity to try and drive a wedge between Jonas and I, fitting Preston in the middle like he isn’t a major factor in why I left in the first place.
Technically, I could call a taxi, but even then I’m running the risk of paparazzi seeing me and running with some convoluted story. In fact, the longer I stand here, the greater that risk becomes, and I start to panic at the idea.
My finger taps a button at the last second, before I can consider the consequences, and when a white pickup truck turns onto the street a half hour later, I feel stupid.
A pang of guilt and shame ripple through my chest as the truck comes to a stop at the curb. After a pause, the driver’s door swings open, and Preston climbs out, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans.
Immediately, I regret the decision. Should’ve known Mama would send him.
My feet shuffle back a half step, and he catches the movement, freezing in place. Irritation sweeps his features, and he lets out a sigh.
Always a fucking sigh.
“When are you going to stop pretending you’re afraid of me, bug?”
I swallow. Shake my head. “I’m not pretending, it just makes you feel better to think that.”
“Then why the fuck was I asked to come out here? Your mom doesn’t seem to think you’re scared.”
Why would she? She doesn’t know the truth.
He pulls a flashlight from his pocket, turning the bulb so it blinds me, and everything inside of me locks up, like a piece of machinery that’s been shut down midproduction.
Flashlights aren’t uncommon, sure. I know that.
But what if…
“Did you get into a fight with a wild animal?” Preston asks, scanning me head to toe.
I just stare at him. Mouth dry, unable to formulate the words to tell him to leave.
In the grand scheme of every mistake I’ve ever made, this is probably the biggest.
Well. Second biggest.
How painfully interesting that this man is at the center of both.
Another set of headlights flash as a new car comes down the road, this time from the opposite way Preston came. Dread seizes my heart, squeezing it until it feels like I might combust on the spot.
When the black Range Rover comes into view, it comes to an abrupt halt directly in front of Preston’s truck. A beat of silence passes, and Preston lets out an annoyed sound.
“We’re good, buddy. No need to fulfill your Samaritan duties, we were just leaving.”
I grimace, pinching my eyes shut, knowing who the driver is before I even hear that velvety British accent.
The driver’s side door opens, and the sound of boots smacking against pavement reverberates in the air. My throat constricts, and I wring my hands together, trying not to choke on my own bad decisions.
Jonas rounds the front of the car, but I don’t look directly at him. Can’t, with shame forcing my neck down and making me nauseous.
“Puppet,” he says, and even though it’s still a nickname, the sound lacks any heat behind it. His voice is flat and devoid of emotion, furthering the spiral of apprehension wreaking havoc on my insides. “Get in the vehicle, would you?”
My brain sends signals to my feet, but they remain in place. When I finally drag my chin up and meet Jonas’s eyes, a chill runs down my spine. I can’t see their shade, but somehow I feel his anger, like some sort of beacon to the weight of it.