“Thanks.”
Leaving is the last thing I want to do.
I want to drag her to an empty room and tear those tempting cotton shorts off her. It’s torture to have her so close all night after a week of resisting and not be able to kiss her or touch her the way I want.
Blair peers up at me, hesitating. “You’ve been…not what I expected. I really appreciate your help.”
I stare back at her. She’s the only thing I’ve wanted all week. She’s right in front of me, thanking me.
And I’m not done taking from her.
Her debt isn’t repaid.
Not even close.
I’ve jacked the price she owes me higher. I’ll have whatever I want from her. All of it.
Blair is mine. Nothing will change that now.
“You can thank me later.” I cup her shoulders. “Because I got your mother this room and better care.”
Blair’s features go slack. “You what?”
I lean down to murmur in her ear. “You can consider what I did payment. I’ll be there this weekend to pick you up. You’d better be packed and ready.”
A minute ago she was thanking me. Now she stumbles back a step, glaring at me.
The demand destroys any bridge I’ve built with Blair by helping her through the situation tonight. Instead of crossing it, I choose my selfishness over everything else. It’s the only way I know to keep the pieces on the board under my control.
“I hate you.” Blair’s glare is fierce, but she doesn’t argue.
I smirk. “I know.”
The problem isn’t that Blair hates me. It’s that I no longer fully hate her. It’s seeped away, overcome by the growing obsession with the way she makes me feel alive when I’m around her.
The only thing I care about is having her.
And I always get what I want.
“Go be with your mom.” I begin to back away, keeping her locked in my sight. Pure fury rolls off Blair in waves. “See you this weekend.”
Twenty-Two
Blair
This month has felt far too long with everything that’s happened.
It’s the last weekend in September and the weather has spiked into the mid-80s all week with a late in the season heatwave. I’m craving the cooler temperatures of fall, when the aspen trees turn golden and the scent of woodsmoke fills the air.
The ancient window unit died in August, leaving me to suffer in an oppressively hot trailer as I haul my small box of books out to the car.
Devlin isn’t helping, the bastard.
I want to slap the smarmy, triumphant smirk from his face.
He leans against the Porsche with sunglasses on, arms crossed, showing off the defined curve of his biceps. In his basketball shorts and a white and green SLHS varsity soccer t-shirt, he looks damn good. I’m annoyed at myself for giving into baser instincts. How can I be attracted to this jerk with tousled black hair and a cut jaw?
Devlin shifts, sliding a hand beneath his t-shirt to scratch an itch, showing off his abs as the shirt lifts.