Then his hand was under my dress, working its way into the thin fabric of my panties, his finger finding my clit, teasing it, then passing it by to seek out my wetness and plunge inside. I whined as he growled, his mouth moving to my neck with a series of searing, open-mouthed bites. His thumb pressed my clit and vibrated there, turning me from angry to desperate. He let go of my breast to take firm hold of the back of my neck, as though he was worried I’d escape before he was done with me. He finger fucked me until my vision blurred and I grabbed onto his arm, not sure if I wanted him to stop or to hurry up and get me off. I really did have to pee, but if I didn’t have an orgasm first, I might die on the spot.
The pleasure crested, and I held my breath, greedily grasping for the orgasm hovering within my reach. I opened my mouth to cry out, or maybe scream, but his mouth came down over mine as he roughly yanked his hand free, hurting me in the process, thoroughly ruining my orgasm.
He set me away from him.
I made a sound of incoherent rage, and he slapped my face just hard enough to make me yelp in surprise.
“Behave yourself, you spoiled fucking brat. This is a public place.” Not trying to hide it, he readjusted his erection in his jeans and checked his hair in the mirror over one of the dripping sinks. “Hurry up and take a piss. I want to be back at the house before dark.”
He leaned a hip against the counter and crossed his arms impatiently.
Incredulous and breathing hard, I locked myself in a stall and tried to calm down.
“And hurry up in there. We don’t have time for you to rub one out.”
“Have you ever tried to pee with a hard-on?” I asked irritably. “This might take a minute.”
“Then I guess you didn’t have to go that bad.” The door rattled, as though he was planning to yank it open and drag me out by the hair.
After a couple of minutes of gritting my teeth, I managed to force out the pee my body seemed determined to hang onto. My irritation, however, stayed with me all the way home.
Chapter 17
“Why are you bringing me instead of Vandal?” I finally asked about two hours into the drive. We’d finally left the highway and headed into some town whose name I’d forgotten as soon as we’d passed the sign.
“My family doesn’t like Vandal.”
Zero had pulled his hair into a tidy ponytail, and he was wearing a button-down shirt and casual pants, both of which looked like money. He was even wearing shoes—he spent all his time at the cottage barefoot or in sandals. Usually he looked wild, with his hair long and loose, and his T-shirts frayed. I wouldn’t be surprised if the man had a pirate ship or Viking longboat moored outside his cabin across the lake.
“I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t like him,” I replied, my tone facetious. It was nice being in the front seat again. I brushed at the skirt of my best dress, still feeling like it might not be nice enough for his parents’ anniversary party. I held a bottle of wine that had cost a bunch of money and was supposed to be from me. Zero had paid for it.
“I don’t know what happened between the two of you in that bathroom. Things were getting really good between the three of us before that.” He paused. “Do I need to kick his ass?”
“He hates me.”
“But why? He likes fucking you and bossing you around, he likes tearing apart your writing. He likes having you read his work and fawn over him. He even likes hanging out with you. You’re the least objectionable person I’ve ever met, so what’s the problem?”
Wow, there was a ringing endorsement. Least objectionable. Apparently Zero considered me Miss fucking Congeniality.
I guess it was better than him resenting me for horning in on their life together.
“But why are you bothering to bring me? You could have gone alone.” And I was pretty sure us going together was making Vandal more jealous, not that Zero seemed to understand that. Vandal had tried to keep me home, saying I’d be too hard to keep track of at a party, but Zero had insisted on bringing me.
Once again, I felt like their pet dog.
“I’m tired of my mother trying to set me up with people. You’re my human shield.”
“Wow. Thanks.” I grimaced and punched him in the arm.
He chuckled. “They can be a bit much. Just remember—water off a duck’s back.”
“If they’re mean to me, I can’t guarantee I’ll behave.”
He nodded, like the idea of me misbehaving was amusing. “Don’t let them steamroll you.”
“If they make me cry you owe me ice cream.”
“I promise. You also have a safeword if you need me to get you out of there in a hurry.” He chuckled but I wasn’t sure he was kidding.
“Do they call you by your original name? I assume it’s not Zero.”
“They call me my legal name,” he said, grimacing.
“Is it that bad?”
“Depends on your perspective. It’s Zachariah.”
I blinked. He didn’t look like a Zach, and I had trouble mentally fitting the name on him.
“There’s nothing wrong with the name Zach.”
He chuckled. “Do you know how many Zachs there were in my class? They were all Zacharys, though.”
“So how did you get from Zach to Zero?”
“I was a terrible student in high school, so my friends called me Zero, since I got a lot of them on tests. It stuck.”
“But that’s mean!”
“It was funny as shit. It wasn’t until I was older that I found out I was smart enough to get good grades. I was just too bored to make the effort.”
Minutes later, he pulled off the busy street and entered a gated community. He nodded to the guard as we drove past.
I sank back into my seat, trying to make myself smaller.
“You didn’t mention they were really rich.”
“They’re not rich. They’re…comfortable.”
The house was on a tastefully treed cul-de-sac, and was gray with black trim, and felt imposing. A lawn service was working out front next door.
“Do they have servants?” I asked meekly.
“No, nothing like that. I mean, there’s a cleaning lady that comes in twice a week, and a landscaper who comes by to mow the lawn and do the weeding, but that’s it.”
“Oh, that’s it. Okay. No cook?” I asked mischievously.
“They order in a lot.”
I rolled my eyes, wondering if he had any idea how funny his rich boy denial was.
“Who does the laundry?” I asked. “Your mom or your dad?”
“They send it out.”
“And the groceries?”
“They order them in.”
“So there are all sorts of servants. They just don’t live here.”
He parked his truck, which looked dirty and out of place in the driveway compared to the expensive, immaculate cars. I expected him to unbuckle his seatbelt, but he leaned his head on the steering wheel, drawing a long, slow breath and exhaling wearily.
Was this visit going to be that bad?
“There may be a caterer today,” he admitted.
I was laughing as he came around to help me down, which involved taking my hand since he had a gift in the other hand. I managed to hang onto the wine instead of smashing it on the fancy paving stones.