Dirty Filthy Rich Men

If you’ve already read the novella, Dirty Filthy Rich Boys, skip to Part Two of this book.

No one on earth could kiss like Weston King.

When his face lowered toward mine, my breath caught in the back of my throat. When his mouth met mine, electricity sparked. When his tongue slipped between my lips, I found heaven. My toes literally curled, just like the trite expression suggested. My heart pounded against my ribcage. Goose bumps stood up along my skin. Butterflies flitted in circles in my belly. Every cell, every fiber of my being felt his invasion. His kiss turned a body of flesh and blood and bone into something bigger. Something combustible. Something charged. Something aflame.

At least that’s what I imagined his kisses were like.

My only evidence was based on observation, and, of that, I had plenty.

The girl he’d chosen to hook up with tonight definitely looked about to burst into flames with the way she was wriggling and writhing against him. Nichette? Was that her name? Or Nikita? It had been hard to hear her over the din of the party when she’d introduced herself to him an hour ago, and he’d only said it once or twice since then. It was something unusual and a bit pretentious and it blurred together with all the other unusual pretentious names of his previous hook-ups.

A guy I recognized from my economics class stumbled past, laughing with his buddies, and I pressed tighter to the wall, clutching my red Solo cup so it wouldn’t spill. Though I didn’t really care for whatever craft beer was on keg this week, it was one of my favorite things about the parties at The Keep. The main attraction was always craft beers and liquor. Most of the other rich Harvard students liked to draw crowds to their soirees with prescription drugs and recipes so experimental the FDA hadn’t even had time to disapprove them yet.

The boys at The Keep kept things simple, and—except for a fair amount of underage drinking—legal. “For those who might not want a blot on their past,” I’d heard Brett Larrabee, the self-designated house manager, state on more than one occasion, usually when he was trying to convince a guy to suck his dick with his “one day I’m going to be a senator” pick-up routine. I had to give him credit—it usually worked.

My other favorite thing about the parties at The Keep was Weston King. It was actually the only reason I ever went to any of the shindigs. I was absolutely intrigued with him for no good reason other than that he was hot, charming and wealthy. He was my addiction. My obsession. My crush.

Gotta love hormones.

I’d noticed Weston on the first day of Intro to Business Ethics. I’d taken a seat in the front of the classroom (because I was that kind of girl), and he’d walked in late (because he was that kind of guy), smirking at something on his cell phone. The grin was still on his face as he tucked his phone in his back pocket, the glimmer still in his blue eyes. Ice blue eyes. The class was in a lecture hall, so it took him several seconds to cross the room, and I couldn’t stop staring. I watched him the entire way. Watched him brush his hand through the dark blond hair that swooped over his forehead. Watched him give a wink to the teacher’s assistant who was glaring at him for being tardy. This guy was confident. Cocky. Exactly like all the preppy rich kids who made it into Harvard because of significant monetary donations and a family name. He was the kid I wanted to hate, and I’d arrived in Cambridge with my scholarship and my father’s lifetime savings wiped out planning to do exactly that.

But then his gaze crossed mine, and I don’t even think he actually saw me, but I saw him and what I saw was fascinating. It was ease and charm and privilege and it made me buzz. Made me breathe. Made me blush with thoughts too dirty for an ethics class. It definitely made me forget every intention I had of hating his kind.

Instead, I wanted to know more.

It wasn’t hard to find out about him. His father was Nash King, co-owner of King-Kincaid Financial, one of the world’s largest investment firms, and without even having to ask, people talked about him. I soon discovered he was a freshman, like me, and that he lived with a bunch of guys in a four-story brownstone ten minutes off campus that had been passed among a few wealthy families for so long, no one remembered why they called it The Keep. The house was famous for the parties they threw every weekend. And though it was now late October and Weston had never once spoken to me or looked at me directly or even indicated that he knew I was alive, I’d come to every one.

Every time, I spent the evening in a corner watching him pressed up against some girl. Always a different corner. Always a different girl. I’d tried to identify if he had a type, but I hadn’t found a pattern. This one was a redhead. Last week was a blonde. The week before, the girl had almost exactly the same shade of brown hair as I did, but she was curvy. This redhead was as rail thin as I was, but she’d obviously purchased a set of breasts. Another time he’d been with a girl even flatter than I was. No pattern. No type. It led me to believe that all I’d have to do was get the courage to talk to him and then maybe…

But then what?

I wasn’t delusional. I knew I had nothing special to offer. There was no trap that would set off the minute Weston’s cock was inside me. He’d fuck me and be done. And then my obsession with him would be even more pathetic because I wouldn’t just be a girl with a crush—I’d be a psycho who couldn’t move on.

Still, I dreamt that I’d be different. That one day, he’d notice me and there’d be that spark and it would be the forever kind of spark and when he found out I’d been saving myself for someone just like him he’d want to work to earn me and he would. And it would be sweet and romantic and we’d live happily ever after.

For a business major, I’d always had a wild imagination. I was well aware.

“Hey, sexy!” One of the guys who lived in the house—I truly had no idea how many did—pulled a girl in a thigh-length sweater and printed leggings in for a hug, blocking my view. “Long time since I’ve seen you. Want to join in the next round?”

I circled around the pool table that the boys kept in place of a dining room table, squinting around people until I caught sight of Weston and his catch of the night. When I spotted them again, it was just in time. They were near the staircase and he was leaning in to whisper something into the redhead’s ear. She responded with a giggle and then a nod.

This was it. The Exit. The moment the two of them would slip away to take things to The Next Level. The part that I spent the rest of the week imagining in fine detail—only, in my imagination, I was the girl, and very often, I accompanied the daydreaming with my hand beneath my panties.

Seriously, maybe I just needed to get laid.

I took another swallow of my not-so-delightful craft beer and cringed. Usually when Weston took off with his hook-up for the night, I finished up my drink and headed home. He would take her upstairs to his room now. At least, I guessed that’s where his room was. The upper level was off-limits, the door to the stairway kept locked, and even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have ever intruded on their private space.

But this time when Weston and his catch went upstairs, he didn’t shut the door tightly behind him. From across the room, my eyes focused in on the latch bolt sticking out from the doorframe, and something came over me. Something unexplainable. Because one minute I was standing against the wall like always and the next I was creeping in the shadows up the dark staircase to the top floor of The Keep.

The stairs were quiet and empty, and at the landing, I paused. The lights were off everywhere on the top floor, and it took a moment for my eyes to focus. There seemed to be a bathroom straight in front of me. To my right was a hallway, to my left was a bedroom with a door slightly ajar. Giggles drifted from the bedroom, and I tiptoed in that direction, cursing at myself every step of the way. What the fuck was I even doing? Was I planning to spy while Weston banged some other girl? Did I want him to suddenly notice me at the door and invite me in instead? Did I want him to invite me to join?

Yeah, this was messed up.

I nearly turned around.

I should have turned around.

But then Nicorette inhaled sharply and I had to know. Had to see.

I crept closer, peeked inside and nearly jumped when I saw the couple directly in front of me in a lip-locked frenzy. Then I realized that I was actually looking at a reflection in a wall-sized mirror. They were on the other side of the bed and the moon was shining in through the window illuminating the display.

And, oh my god, was it hot.

The redhead had already lost her shirt and her bra, and Weston was bent over her, suckling on one breast, kissing her pointed nipple while squeezing her other breast.

Nikita threw her head back and moaned. Unconsciously, I plumped my own breast over my sweater, and nearly gasped when I found my nipple sensitive and erect. I had to bite my lip to keep from making any noise. Had to cross my ankles to ease the throbbing between my legs.

I watched as Weston peeled off his shirt, the angle giving me a view of his beautiful, muscular back. He was on the rowing team. Of course. So preppy. So rich boy. But those muscles… God bless the rowing team.

And now he was undoing his jeans. And she was drawing out his cock. I could feel my eyes widen, trying to get a better look at his dick. I dared to lean in a little farther. Still, all I could make out was a dark shadow in the grip of the redhead’s little palm as she stroked him up and down.

“Yeah, Nicky, just like that.” The low rumble in Weston’s voice made my knees buckle. I could just hear him over the thump-thump of the bass drifting up from downstairs.

“It’s Nichelle,” she corrected. Right! That’s what it was.

“Yeah, Nichelle.” He pulled her head back up so he could devour her mouth. He kissed her for a few minutes, greedily, before pulling away and heading out of the reflection—toward me.

I cowered in the corner where the hinge met the frame, certain I was about to be discovered. But all Weston did was shut the door.

I leaned my back against the closed door and let out a deep breath.

Because what the actual fuck?

I could have gotten caught. I could have gotten kicked out of The Keep forever. I could have lost any respect Weston might have ever had for me before even earning it.

And why the hell was I so into this guy anyway? I didn’t even know him! I needed to get my head in the right place. Needed to remember why my father put in all those years with the furniture store and why my mother’s life insurance money was saved and put away. It was so I could go to the school of my dreams. Not so that I could spend all my time daydreaming over a pretty-faced playboy.

But what a pretty face he had.

God, I was in trouble.

“He’s never going to go for you,” a voice came out of the dark in front of me. “Not while you’re a virgin.”

I squinted, and when I looked closer, I saw there was another bedroom at the end of the hall with the door wide open, and though I couldn’t quite make out the figure, I could see there was someone sitting in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. Or a cigar maybe.

I took a step forward. Surely he wasn’t talking to me, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. “Excuse me?”

“Weston never goes for virgins. It’s one of his rules.”

Heat rushed up my neck and flooded my cheeks. “Uh…”

“You’re offended.”

“Yes. I’m offended.” And embarrassed. How long had this guy been watching me? It was pretty safe to assume that he’d seen me spying on Weston. Which was just…mortifying. Thank goodness it was too dark for him to see my face.

“Care to explain?”

I took another step forward. Then several more. Steps I should have taken down the stairs while I was still an anonymous girl in the dark.

But there was something about being watched privately by someone else that made me feel a kinship that I hadn’t felt before. All that time I’d spent watching Weston, it was as though I’d been carrying a secret. And the first person to discover it had found it out by secretly watching me.

Or maybe that was just an excuse and I was just lonely. Or drunk. Or stupid.

“Well.” I paused at the doorway of his room. “A of all, you can’t possibly know what your roommate is and isn’t into. And B of all, the status of my virginity is not something you can just presume.”

He took a puff of his cigar—not a cigarette, it turned out—and the smoke filled the room with a sweet woody scent that reminded me of fireplaces and old libraries. “I beg to disagree. To both.”

I huffed audibly. Because what else could I say to something as cocky as that?

Actually, plenty.

I threw my shoulders back, ready to go off when he went on first. “Look. I’ve known Weston since he was in diapers. I know him better than his mother does, I know him better than that girl who’s in there currently sucking his dick, and I certainly know him better than you do.”

He did know Weston well, I realized. I knew this guy, too. He was the T.A. for my ethics class. I hadn’t recognized him at first, but now I did. He was Donovan Kincaid, son of Weston’s father’s business partner. I hadn’t known he lived here. I’d never seen him at any of The Keep’s parties before.

My hands started sweating and my pulse picked up a notch.

Donovan was several years older than us and was currently getting his MBA. He was a legend around campus because he was brilliant and ruthless. His business ideas were not only smart but also cutting edge. He was the sort of man who was going to rule the world. Tall, attractive, tough, powerful, strong. Perceptive. He intimidated me in general.

Right now? He scared the shit out of me.

“As for your virginity,” he went on, “you wear it like a badge.”

“I do not.” I really kind of did. Right now, I was at a college party wearing a shapeless sweater and jeans. My hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. My shoes were Doc Martens that my roommate said had gone out of style a decade ago. It wasn’t that I tried to be dumpy looking. I just liked to be comfortable. And as the older sister without a mother around, I’d never really had anyone teach me how to be a girl.

“There really is no reason to be offended,” Donovan said, taking a sip from a glass. Whiskey, I was guessing. Something told me it wasn’t his first glass of the night. “I’m not criticizing. In fact, I’m offering to help.”

It took me a second to understand just what he meant. “Oh, please.”

“I’m not kidding. Shall we discuss the pros and cons?”

I cocked my head and studied him, as if I could study him in the dark. Was he seriously offering to sleep with me? He obviously had no idea who I was.

“I, uh, don’t think so.” I tugged on the end of my ponytail, a nervous habit of mine. “I’m sure it’s because there’s no light in here or because there’s so many of us in there, but I’m in your Intro to Business Ethics class. I’m your student.”

He stretched to his side and yanked a chain, turning on a lamp next to him. I blinked several times in the newly lit bedroom. He wore a simple black sweater and jeans. His feet were bare. His unruly hair had more red in it in the dim light, his green eyes had more flecks of brown. It made him look more rugged than usual. More intense. His jawline added to the effect. It was lined with scruff, as if he hadn’t shaved since class yesterday morning, and, though I’d never had such an impulse before, I found myself wanting to run my hand across the fuzz. Wanted to know exactly what it felt like under my skin. Was it soft? Did it scratch? Who was the last woman to run her hand across his jaw? Did he love her?

“I know who you are, Sabrina Lind.” Donovan’s declaration shocked me back to the here and now. “Ninety-seven point three average. You’re here on a scholarship, so that matters. Never missed a day of class. Always sit in the front on the right side. Chad Lee cheats off your quizzes, but you don’t know that. Your essays are on the detailed side but are creative, and I respect that. I appreciated your response to the unfair firing of Peter Oiler at Winn-Dixie Stores, but your perspective on Ford’s decision not to modify the early versions of the Pinto was short-sighted.”

My jaw dropped. There was too much to react to. I chose the easiest to respond to first. “Ford’s decision killed people.”

“It made the company money. It’s called utilitarianism.” Even as he was heartless, his voice was smooth, like the fine scotch that I imagined lingered on his tongue.

I wondered briefly what it would taste like against my own tongue.

Just as quickly, I forced the thought out of my mind. “And I thought the class was called business ethics.” The case he referred to had bothered me a lot. In 1970, Ford had discovered a major error with the Pinto that would likely cause several hundred deaths and injuries. Instead of fixing it however, their cost-benefit analysis determined it would be cheaper to settle the presumed lawsuits. So they didn’t make the modifications.

“I think I’ve taught that ethics have to be personally defined.” Donovan sat back and crossed one ankle over his knee. He searched my face before taking another puff of his cigar. “The offer still stands.”

“What offer?” I blinked once before realizing which offer he meant. “Did you miss the part where you’re my teacher?” And why was I still standing here talking to the guy? I should have left by now. But I was glued in place, as fascinated with this discussion as I’d ever been with Weston King.

“I’m not actually your teacher. I’m the teacher’s assistant.” This was technically true. Mr. Velasquez officially taught the Monday, Wednesday, Friday class. But he only taught half of the time, and even when he did teach, Donovan still sat at his corner desk and graded papers or read or did whatever it was that he did while the rest of us listened to the lecture.

Apparently one of the things he did was watch us.

Or did he just watch me?

A string of goose bumps popped up along my skin at the thought. I hugged myself and rubbed my hands up and down my arms.

Donovan’s lip quirked up, as if he knew exactly the reaction he was having on me. “It’s not officially against school policy if I fraternize with students.”

I shook off a shiver. “By my own personal definition, it would be unethical.”

“And why is that?” His voice wasn’t just smooth, it was warm. Coaxing, even with its bitter edge.

“You grade my papers.”

“So?” His stare was direct. Intense.

And this conversation was ridiculous. I wasn’t considering it. Was I?

I glanced up, just to get my eyes away from him for one minute, and my gaze landed on a framed portrait on top of his fireplace. It was a picture of Donovan with a woman, both laughing as though they were caught candidly. It couldn’t have been taken too long ago—Donovan looked nearly the same age as he was now, but his hair was short and clean-cut. And I’d never seen the woman. Maybe she was someone waiting for him back home. Or someone he’d broken up with. Or someone he was cheating on by flirting with me.

I looked back at him and realized he’d caught me looking at the picture. “If I fooled around with you, my scores might be affected,” I said, answering his last question.

“If you don’t fool around with me, your scores might be affected.” His tone seemed hard now. Cold.

I smiled tightly and shifted my balance from the ball of one foot to the ball of the other, trying to decide if he was kidding.

His expression said he wasn’t.

I swallowed. “You’re an asshole.”

“Am I? You’re the one who came up here trying to get something from me.”

“What do you mean?” The conversation had totally gotten away from me, and wherever it had gone, I was sure I didn’t want to be there.

“You’re alone with me in my bedroom. What else am I supposed to think you’re after?”

A chill ran through me. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. The blood drained from my face.

Donovan set his drink down on the side table and leaned forward so his forearms rested on his thighs.

“Get out of here, Sabrina. This floor is off limits during our parties. Next time you attend one, maybe you’ll think about the ethics of obeying house rules.”

I turned around and dashed downstairs without hesitating another second.

I grabbed my coat from the bedroom on the main floor where everyone stacked their jackets and ran outside, tying my belt around my waist while I bounded down the front steps of The Keep. I pulled my phone from my pocket and looked at the time. It was too late to risk walking back to my apartment alone. It wasn’t far, but this was campus territory, and I was a better-safe-than-sorry kind of girl. I used my app to arrange for an escort, put my phone away and then rubbed my hands together to keep warm.

It was a cold night. Fall set in right on time in Massachusetts. But like hell was I going back inside. I’d rather freeze.

Which was dumb. I was only punishing myself when I really wanted to punish Donovan. What the fuck was that anyway?

I replayed our entire conversation as I paced the front walk, trying to figure out exactly what had happened between us. All of it had been strange and borderline inappropriate, but there had been something else going on. Hadn’t there? Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I should never have engaged, wouldn’t have engaged in a hundred other similar situations, yet I’d been drawn to him. He’d drawn me to him. That’s the thing about Donovan Kincaid, the thing he was famous for—he was a known puppet master. He was a man who pulled the strings, and he’d pulled me to him.

Then why had he turned so icy at the end?

Obviously that was his game the entire time. He was messing with me. He caught me where I shouldn’t be, and he made me pay for it. I deserved it. Didn’t mean I liked it. And it definitely didn’t mean I liked Donovan.

I glanced up at his window and shivered. Was he standing there right now? Watching me through the glass?

I could almost see the flare of his cigar in the dark. Could almost feel his eyes crawling along my skin. Imagining it made me feel both warmer and colder all at once. Like I was less alone and more alone than ever.

The front door of The Keep opened then, startling my attention in that direction. Theo, a guy I’d seen around a few times, ambled onto the porch and sniffed the air. “Fuck! It’s cold as balls out here.”

Ginger Baldwin followed out behind him with a guy that I guessed she was going home with based on the way they were hanging on each other. “Your balls are cold?” she asked with a giggle. “Is that a normal thing?”

“My balls aren’t cold,” her boyfriend of the night piped in, as if the idea would turn her off. “You’ve got a problem with your anatomy.”

“Har har.” Theo adjusted himself. “My anatomy is fine. Shall we whip them out and compare?”

“You’re always trying to get me to whip it out. Are you sure you’re not trying to tell me something?”

Theo huffed, angrily. “You know what? Fuck off.”

I lowered my head and eased into the shadows on the side of the steps. Casual socializing wasn’t my forte when all the participants were sober, much less when some were as drunk as these obviously were. I wasn’t in the mood for talking to anyone at the moment, anyway.

Unfortunately, the movement must have caught Theo’s eye. “Who’s that over there?”

I pulled out my phone and pretended to be texting someone, pretended not to be listening to them, but I could feel their eyes on me.

“I know her. She’s in my statistics class,” Ginger said quietly. Then louder as she came down the stairs, “Hey, Bree. You okay?”

“Yeah.” I pocketed my phone. “Just waiting for my escort.” Like a loser. With no one to walk her home like the cool kids. I’d managed to drag my roommate to one of the early parties, but it hadn’t been her scene. Besides, Sheri and I weren’t that close, for no other reason than that our schedules didn’t match up and she had a boyfriend who occupied her time.

Ginger smiled a little too widely, and I could imagine her thinking, thank god, I didn’t really want to deal with you, so I’m glad I don’t have to, while she kindly said, “Awesome. Glad you used the app.” She followed her boyfriend to his car parked in front of the house.

Her escort, like a gentleman, opened the door for her, then called out to his friend still standing on the bottom step. “Theo, you coming?”

Theo ran both his hands through his hair and shrugged. “Nah, I’m going to walk.” But instead of stepping down to the sidewalk, he strode over to me. “First, I’ll look out for Sabrina while she waits. That’s cool with you. Right, Bree?”

I didn’t know the guy except from having seen him at previous parties. The offer was odd and out of place. “It’s really not necessary.”

“That’s a good idea,” Ginger’s date said, standing with the door open on the driver’s side of the car. “Shouldn’t be out here alone. You can never be too careful.”

I wasn’t alone. There was a whole houseful of people behind me and an escort on the way. But if Theo felt like a good scout to wait with me and if it gave Ginger and her guy an easy way to get rid of their third wheel, so be it. “Right. That’s true. Thanks.”

If Theo thought I was going to be chatty, though, he had another think coming.

The car had just barely taken off when I realized it wasn’t chatting that Theo was interested in.

“Sabrina,” he said, inching closer to me. Closer than I liked. “You’re a lot prettier than you let on. I’m sure you get told that all the time, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t. Thank you, but.” I pulled on the back of my ponytail and turned my head from him to look at the curb. The problem with the escort service was it was understaffed. Especially on Saturday nights. There was no telling how long it would be before it would get here. Maybe I should have waited inside after all. It wasn’t too late to change my mind.

“Why do you hide all that pretty?” Theo reached his hand out and tugged at the belt of my coat, pulling it open.

“Excuse me?” I turned my head sharply toward him and yanked my coat back from him, but he wouldn’t let go.

“I bet you have a gorgeous body too.”

“Theo, thank you, but I’m uncomfortable with what you’re saying. And what you’re doing.” He was drunk. That was all. He was just being playful.

Except he wasn’t just being playful. He stepped closer. “I don’t really care if you’re comfortable with what I’m saying, Sabrina.” His breath smelled faintly of beer, but his words weren’t slurred. He was in complete control of himself. He knew what he was doing.

I tried to step around him, but he put a hand up on the wall behind me. I had nowhere else to go. I’d made a mistake when I’d ducked into the shadows earlier because now I was in the corner where the stairs met the house, and Theo was blocking my escape.

“Theo. Please.” I swallowed the ball at the back of my throat.

He sniffed, the second time I’d heard him, either from the cold or from snorting, I wasn’t sure. “Please what?” he said as if he really didn’t have any idea what I was asking.

“Let me go.”

He feigned consideration then shook his head as if he was sorry he couldn’t comply with my request. “Look.” He pulled his thumb along my bottom lip, which quivered under his unwanted touch. “I don’t want to draw this out, so here’s how this is going to go—I’m going to fuck you. You can either make it easy or you can make it hard. Either way, we both know who has the power here.”

I didn’t even think. I just opened my mouth and started to scream. “Hel—!”

Theo was ready for me. He clamped his hand over my mouth—cutting me off before I could get any real sound out—and grinned from ear to ear. “I was actually hoping you’d choose the hard way. I like it when girls struggle. It will be better for you too. I’ll come a whole lot faster.”

“Fuck you,” I said, muffled against his claw. And though I hated giving him what he wanted, though he was at least six feet tall and probably two hundred pounds, though I had no chance in hell at getting away from him, I fought back. I pushed against his shoulders with all my strength. I kneed at him. I wriggled. I cried.

Theo only chuckled. “Just like that, baby.” He pressed his body in tighter against me, using his thighs to keep my lower body from squirming. With his free hand, he undid his pants and drew out his cock.

I started crying harder. I’d seen a penis before. I was a virgin but not a prude. I’d had a high school boyfriend. I’d given him blowjobs and handjobs and he had done enough to me in return that I wasn’t even sure my hymen was still intact.

But looking at Theo’s cock made me want to throw up. It had to be the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. Everything about it was disgusting. I didn’t want it anywhere near me. Definitely didn’t want it inside me.

I had to get out of this.

I brought my hands up to his face and scratched as hard as I could. Scratched until I drew blood.

Theo cursed and let go of his dick so he could wrestle my hands down instead. When he had them pinned tightly under my breasts, he moved his other hand so it covered my nose as well as my mouth.

“I can keep my hand like this, and in a couple minutes you won’t have the energy to fight me. Would you prefer that, Sabrina? Is that the way you want to do this?” He locked his eyes right on mine, got right up in my face so he was sure I understood what he was saying. So he was sure that I understood that he was giving me the choice of whether or not he let me breathe.

I shook my head.

“So you’ll be good?”

Did I have a choice? My lungs were already aching. My eyes were already seeing spots. My brain was already panicking with the impulse to take a breath.

I nodded.

He didn’t move his hand.

I nodded harder. I cried harder. Desperate.

Finally he moved his hand down ever so slightly so that my nostrils were uncovered. I inhaled cold air in long, sputtering draws, taking as much as I could get in through my nose. My chest rose and fell with each gasping breath.

Slowly, Theo let go of my hands, giving me another warning look as he resumed stroking his cock.

I got it. He had the power. I did not. Lesson learned. Lesson fucking learned.

I still struggled. I couldn’t help it. It was like a reflex. Like that one time I’d gotten a pedicure and couldn’t help kicking the technician because I was so ticklish. I willed myself to cooperate with Theo, and still my body fought him.

“Undo your jeans,” he ordered after he’d jacked himself for a minute, his voice tight.

No. Please no, don’t make me. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

He inched the hand over my mouth slightly toward my nose—threatening—but I was already undoing the snap. Unzipping the zipper.

Tears leaked down my cheeks as Theo shooed my hands away. He licked two of his fingers and said, “Don’t want to go in dry,” then he stuck them inside my panties, searching for the hole he wanted.

A sob bubbled deep in my chest, and I closed my eyes, wishing I could be someplace else, surrendering to a deluge of mismatched thoughts that went on and on randomly. A panicked stream of consciousness. I’m not here. I’m somewhere else. I’m on the beach. I’m in the Riviera Maya. I can’t tell my father. He’ll be so mad. I haven’t shaved. Can you get frostbite in October? That redhead had nice breasts. What was her name again? It’s just my virginity. It’s just sex. Will I tell my sister? This is so embarrassing. I should have waited inside. It’s so cold. Who was the blonde in that picture in Donovan’s room? That last trip we took with Mom to the Riviera Maya was in October. It will be five years this December. What if he hurts me? What if he really hurts me? I hope no one comes out and sees this. I can’t tell my sister. I can’t tell anyone. Nichelle. I keep forgetting her name on purpose. I miss my mom. Please, God, let someone come and stop this!

I was still aware of everything around me. Hyperaware. I knew I’d forever be able to identify the smell of Theo’s shampoo. Of his cologne. His watch ticked in the quiet, each second sounding after an eternity while his fingernails scraped along the walls of my insides.

But I must not have been as attentive as I thought I was, because I never heard the door open or the footsteps on the stairs. I didn’t see Donovan grab Theo by the back of his jacket and pull him off of me, but I did see him punch Theo squarely in the nose, heard it crack, saw the blood gush.

“What the fuck?” Theo howled, one hand holding his nose while he quickly pulled up his pants with the other. “Jesus, Kincaid!”

My knees nearly buckled in relief. I was free of Theo, free of his sweaty hand and his oppressive body. I scooted away from the corner I’d been trapped in, afraid I might somehow end up imprisoned there again, and fastened my pants as fast as I could. Shock halted my tears, and though I felt steady, I could see my hands were shaking.

Theo, seeming to see that he might be in trouble, took a step away, but Donovan grabbed his arm and yanked him back. “Did I say we were finished?” Theo had Donovan beat on size, yet Donovan didn’t seem concerned at all.

I bit my trembling lip and hugged my arms around myself. Donovan might not be scared, but I was. Too scared to leave to get help. Too numb.

“Hey, I don’t know what you think happened—” Theo started to say, but Donovan cut him off.

“You don’t get to talk.” Donovan yanked Theo’s arm again. Hard. “It’s up to Sabrina whether she presses charges. Sabrina?” Donovan looked at me, his green eyes searing into mine, searching as though he was afraid I was lost.

Maybe I was lost.

I blinked. He’d asked me a question. “What was that?” I managed.

“Do you want to press charges against Theo?”

The reality of the situation came crashing back on me full force. I’d been assaulted. That asshole had had his fingers inside me. If Donovan hadn’t shown up, he’d have raped me by now.

I choked back bile.

Of course I wanted to press charges. Except…

I thought about it again. Went quickly through the scenario—white rich boy accused of assault by a nobody girl. Alcohol involved. No actual rape. Scholarship at risk. There was no way this would end in my favor, as much as I wanted it to. As much as the world needed brave warriors for violated women, it wasn’t what I wanted for myself. It shamed me, but it was my truth.

“It’s fine,” I mumbled, a tear slipping down my cheek. I just wanted to forget all of this. Go home, take a bath. Pretend none of this ever happened.

“What?” Donovan asked, forcing me to repeat myself.

“I’m not pressing charges,” I said louder. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t even know who I was apologizing to. Myself. Every victim of assault who’d never gotten a chance to face her attacker in cuffs.

“Fine.” Donovan let go of Theo’s arms, but when Theo turned around to face him Donovan kneed him in the nuts. “You deserve worse, you asshole. Unfortunately, the U.S. legal system probably wouldn’t give you much more than that. Penalties at The Keep are more severe though. You’re not welcome here. You won’t do business with our families. Your investments at King-Kincaid will be canceled. Now get the fuck off my property. You’re bleeding all over my Ferragamos.”

Theo wiped the blood dripping from his nose with the back of his hand and leaned a shoulder forward as though he were going to challenge Donovan. Then he seemed to think better of it and took a step backward. “All right. All right, Kincaid. Didn’t realize you were saving this one for yourself.”

“Get the fuck out of here.” Donovan never raised his voice, but his tone and his eyes and his posture said it all. Theo took off.

I was still shaking, still crying. I swiped the tears from my eyes and started to turn to thank Donovan when a car pulled up to the curb. I turned my attention there instead. It was my escort. What timing.

When I shifted back to Donovan, he was already climbing back up the stairs toward the front door without a goodbye. Without even an, “Are you all right?”

I cried the entire drive home. Cried for an hour in the shower. It wasn’t until hours later when I was curled up in the fetal position in my bed that I realized that Donovan’s Ferragamos were boots. And they’d been tied. He’d seen my situation through his bedroom window then taken the time to lace them up before coming downstairs to rescue me.