Page 69 of Filthy Little Regrets
“Playing games?”
“No,” she says, breathless at my proximity.
Humming, I drop my mouth to her throat, grabbing a handful of her ass as I trace a circle around her hammering pulse with my tongue. She’s a filthy liar. I bite her, earning a tiny gasp of surprise, which I soothe away with another swipe of my tongue. Her hands grasp at my shirt. Shit. I’m already hard again and the reason is clinging to my body. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you,” I confess against her skin with a groan.
“Dinner,” she squeaks.
She’s looking for an escape. Knowing that my mom planned this out and has my dad waiting is the only reason I give her one. If we skip dinner, he’ll be pissed, and I won’t give him a reason to be mad at Mom.
With inhuman restraint, I pull away from her body, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from grabbing her again. Her eyes are big and round. I wonder if they’d be that big with my cock down her throat. I adjust myself, and her focus drops to my crotch.
“You’re going to have to stop looking at me like that if you want to go to dinner.”
The red of her cheeks deepens as she glances away, pushing off the banister. “We should go or we’ll be late.”
I gesture her forward. “Ladies first.” Some might say I’m being a gentleman, but if they saw the way my eyes immediately find her hips, how they practically tease me with what she might look like pregnant, or the visions of her writhing beneath me in my head, they’d know better. This is all self-serving.
“Stop staring at my ass.”
“No.”
She tosses a haughty glare over her shoulder.
That spark of hers is addictive.
I force my thoughts on all the stress that came with this week, letting the unnecessary pissing contest kill my erection and douse the desire burning through me. Dad felt disrespected by Issac Renolds and decided the best way to recover was to forcefully take over the company and call it a merger. It was a slaughter and we all know it.
Cassia is silent and contemplative beside me on the walk from our house to the main one, and I let her have her space. There’s only so far you can push someone who feels cornered. She needs time to breathe.
Dinner with my parents is the last thing I want to do, but Mom insisted, and I don’t want to disappoint her. I want her to get to know Cassia. To know that I’ll be a good husband.
I lead Cassia up the steps, jaw tight, and push through the front door. The main house is a larger version of mine. Sometimes I take the opulence for granted, but Cassia stops, jaw dropping as she experiences the mansion for the first time. I wait, watching her eyes drink inevery detail, only a little jealous that something else has her eyes widening in wonder.
“Finally,” Melody mutters, meandering into the foyer. “Mom thought you might not come.” My sister stares at me in warning.Don’t piss Dad off tonight.“Hey, Cassia,” she tells my wife, brightening. “Do you want a drink? Mace stole mine last time so he doesn’t get one.”
The slight glaze to my sister’s eyes has me wondering if she hasn’t already had a glass. She catches my frown but quickly averts her gaze.
Cassia glances at me for guidance.
I shrug. “Your choice.”
She nods. “Right. Sure, I’ll have a glass, but only one.”
Melody chatters away as we follow her to the full bar right outside the kitchen. Cassia takes a seat, subtly flicking her gaze around while she fidgets with her dress. She’s nervous. Probably thinking she doesn’t fit in, but to me, she fits in wherever she goes. The rest of the world should worry about whether or not they deserve to breathe the same air. Capturing her hand, I smooth my thumb over the back of it, tracing soothing circles.
“I’m thinking about a spring break in the Med,” Melody shares as she opens a bottle of wine.
Cassia’s searching gaze seers into the side of my face.
After her anxiety attack the other day, I did a little reading. Though nothing I say will really help her feel better, I can at least let her know she’s not alone, providing whatever support she needs.
“And who would go with you?” I ask.
Melody places Cassia’s goblet in front of her, then looks at me. “Adalie?—”
Cassia’s hand softens in mine. I squeeze her palm andcontinue making the outline of a circle over her skin. “Adalie is only nineteen.”
“And not an idiot,” Melody grumbles. “She’s not as soft as you think she is. Besides, wouldn’t you rather have me corrupt her than some rando?”
