Her hands worked at the corset of her dress until it loosened, and she heaved out another exhale. She bent both knees, rested a forearm on each one, and leaned her head between her legs.
The first dry heave elicited an eye roll from me.
The second one had me pulling up my Spotify app.
The third one pierced my ears until my fingers ran marathons across the keyboard.
The fourth one came, and I pressed play on “Shut Up” by Black Eyed Peas.
One second.
Two.
Three.
“Turn that shit off!” Her voice bounced off the walls, an unbridled shout. Her anger formed tsunami waves in the elevator, lashing at me. “I swear, I will smash your phone against your head unless you turn that shit off!”
Following orders had never been a strong suit of mine.
I let it play, “shut up” repeating over and over again. She shot up from her crouch and pushed me, putting all her weight into the effort. A kitten who’d mistaken herself for a tiger.
My phone clattered to the floor between us, but I planted my feet, not budging an inch, even when her tiny fingers flexed against the hard ridges of my pecs and her tits delivered her rapid heartbeats onto my abs.
They fluttered like hummingbird wings across my skin, sending goosebumps up and down my arms. Her scent repelled and lured me. I leaned forward when I should have leaned back.
I wanted to fuck with her.
I wanted to fuck her.
I couldn’t do one, so I settled for the other.
Stepping into her touch, I reveled in the sound of her breath catching as I whispered against her ear, my lips touching the delicate curve, “Faking a panic attack is not cute attention-seeking behavior.”
Pulling back, my body hit the wall and my hip brushed against her pinched waist at the movement, conjuring a breathy gasp.
So fragile.
So delicious.
So wrong.
“Word of advice,” I drawled. Slow. The speed you’d use on someone just learning English. “If that’s how you sound after sex, I suggest cardio.”
The words made me as much of a liar as the Winthrops.
Her hands still sat on my chest, clenched around the shirt fabric, breaths coming out in quick pants.
She sounded like sex.
Reeked of sex.
Moved like sex.
The last thought I needed was of Emery and cardio with the memory of her riding me branded on my brain.
Tiny nails grazed my pecs. Her hips rolled forward, unaware my eyes had adjusted to the dark half an hour ago as she sought something I’d never willingly give her. She had to steal it from me. Rob me.
A little thief.
Like her father.
Like me.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
That’s okay, little Tiger.
I hate you, too.
And if she ever asked for forgiveness, I’d throw her pleas back in her face and ruin her life for sport.
Her family killed my father. It might as well have been tattooed onto my flesh, because I would never forget it. I would never forgive it.
I pressed a pointer finger to her forehead and pushed until she took the hint and stepped back with the attitude of an unfed dog. “You don’t know me, sweetheart.”
She laughed, lazy, psychotic, maddening. It was the kind of ceaseless laughter that didn’t have a beginning or an end. Just noise.
Raucous.
Unhinged.
Worthy of a horror movie soundtrack.
She’d lost it.
Emery Winthrop had finally lost it.
But crazy had always fueled her blood. She sought adrenaline highs like a junky, climbed trees and fell down without blinking an eye, snuck into beds, proudly wore her emotions on t-shirts, and defended herself fiercely.
She reminded me of a cornered predator, ready to lash out, desperate to differentiate herself from the Virginia 2.0 her mother demanded her to be.
It made her wild.
Reckless.
Foolish.
So, so foolish.
“I know your type.” She swiped at my finger, swatting it to the side. Her dress bowed forward, unzipped, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Not just rich but wealthy.”
The word spat out like a curse. She edged herself onto me. Not edging herself onto me—edging herself onto my phone. She drove her heel into the screen and twisted until it cracked, a kaleidoscope of reds, greens, and blues that did nothing but light up the Converse she wore beneath her floor-length gown.
“Handsome.” Another word she’d turned into a curse. “Over-privileged. You think you’re better than everyone else, that you can do whatever you please and get away with it. You disgust me.”
It wasn’t lost on me that her description suited her dad. I didn’t tell her this, though, because doing so would reveal my identity. I unveiled a saccharine smile she couldn’t see and laughed. Loud. In her face. Spearmint caressing her skin.
She could enjoy her pretty, perfect world—her emails from Gideon and the fat sum that sat in a trust fund under her name—a little while longer. Soon enough, everything she owned would be mine.
Her hopes.
Her dreams.
Her future in the palm of my hands.
I was hard at the idea of revenge.
Beneath us, my phone sputtered out.
Dead.
Another casualty to the Winthrop name.
Anger stained her voice. I let her revel in it. My pulse thrummed at the realization I might have lost my final photos of Dad on there. Dad’s birthday party. Ma had packed a picnic because it was all she could afford, but it was the last time I’d smiled. Really smiled.
My fingers itched to snatch my phone and fix it, but I couldn’t do anything while stuck here.
“Do you have a last name, Emery?” I enunciated her name, taking pleasure in the way her body stilled.
Her bravado vanished.
She backed away from me. “Who’s asking?”
“A concerned guest, who’d like to report an ill-mannered employee,” I lied.
She nestled herself in the corner, relieving me of the vodka scent. Of her. “Don’t bother. I’m with the catering staff, and we’re gone after the night.”
The puzzle clicked into place. The name tag. The rail-thin frame. Prescott Hotels hired models to serve at every event. Usually, ones who hadn’t made a name for themselves and needed money.
Emery needed money like I needed a bigger dick. Any more would be excessive.
Silence spread until her legs twitched, tapping on the floor again.
“Claustrophobic?” I could have hidden the amusement in my voice. I didn’t.
“Not really. Just bad in confined spaces.”
“That is literally claustrophobia.”
She also hadn’t had it when I’d known her. I took pleasure in her baggage, tangible evidence justice existed after all. Not in the court systems. Guilt and evidence lived separate lives, rarely meeting one another.
Hence, her baggage delighted me.
An appetizer for the main course to come.
“I know what claustrophobia is,” she snapped. “I don’t have it.” She sat in her corner, legs straight out. They brushed against my shoes until she jerked them back to her chest like she’d been stung.
I allowed silence to settle between us. Sitting, I palmed my broken phone and felt around the edges. Definitely smashed, tiny little pieces of shattered glass digging across my palms.
Hopefully, it only required a new screen.