Revenge On Her Dad’s Best Friends (Three Ways To Get Even #2)

Chapter Seven

Calista didn’t wait for them to do her bidding. She gripped her gloved hands about their wrists, placed each of them in front of a chair, and pushed into their chests until their butts hit the cushioned seats.

And maybe she wasn’t as smooth as she wanted to be, but eventually, she was able to remove the handcuffs from the loop on her suit. She decided it would be more sexy, more femme fatale if she leaned over them, nearly straddling them to get the handcuffs on their wrists behind their backs. Yes, definitely what KittyHotStuff69 would do. Of course, she couldn’t have made it any more awkward if she read a how-to guide.

But that meant she had to get so close to them that she became distracted by how thick and long their eyelashes were and how their cologne seemed to penetrate the latex of the suit and would linger on her skin for days and stay in her head... forever.

Oh gosh, she was hot and getting hotter. At their nearness. The whisper of their breath against her cheek as she restrained them created a vortex of heat that was nothing compared to what was happening inside her suit.

There. She’d done it. She restrained her dad’s best friends to three chairs in their penthouse suite, and she had the keys to the cuff tucked safely inside the suit, between her breasts. If they wanted the keys, they would have to cut the suit from her body. She took comfort in that they wouldn’t touch her if she were on fire. Which she kind of was at present.

Still, the part of Calista that didn’t feel like it had dunked into an inferno wanted to explode from excitement. She was truly this close to her big reveal, and she couldn’t wait... Also, if only so she could remove the damn suit. She’d gone from uncomfortably warm to nearly unbearably, suffocatingly hot in a matter of minutes.

Composure. Composure. Composure.

She was close. Too close to have a literal meltdown.

She was at the business end of things now.

“Hello, Bradford Evans.” She ran her fingertips across Bradford’s chest, his muscles making her quake in her boots as they flexed. From Bradford’s chest, her fingers traveled to Reece’s shoulder and then curved across his pectoral muscles. His power was so undeniable that she licked her lip involuntarily.

From Reece, she walked her fingers over to Zachariah. Where Bradford didn’t bother to look at her, and Reece did as if he could see through her mask, Zachariah first cast his gaze on her fingers on his broad, sculpted chest before lifting his focus to her face.

“You may think my name is KittyHotStuff69,” she continued, swaggering her way in front of them once more. “But I also go by another name. Do you want to know who I am?” It was a rhetorical question, obviously.

She pulled at the zipper at the back of the mask and peeled it away from her face. Fresh air bombarded her, and she greedily sucked it in.

“Remember… umm… me? Remember me? Hank… Saunders’ daughter—”

Nope. Now that she got a taste of clean, unencumbered air, she wanted her body to breathe as well, and it couldn’t, not smothered in latex as it was at that moment.

Sweat seemed to be dripping down her spine and her thighs. She needed to turn the air conditioning down to arctic temperatures. But somehow she knew that wasn’t going to help. A feeling of claustrophobia gnawed at her. Even with the mask on her face removed, it was the neckline of the suit that seemed to be strangling her. She felt icky.

The talc started to cake on her skin; the lubrication she’d used as well felt as sticky as syrup, and she wanted it off her.

“Remember? Me? I waited—”

She was bungling up her grandiose revenge speech all because she was cooking in her catsuit.

She couldn’t. Not a minute longer. Her gaze landed on a door that inevitably would lead to an ensuite bathroom.

“Hold that thought,” she said, holding up a finger, then dashed to the bathroom. As if she were performing an exorcism on herself, she tried to get out of the suit but couldn’t for the life of her get her elbow out of the sleeve. She tried to tear the fabric, but nothing worked. To think she had to stop breathing to get into it for fear of ripping a hole into it with her nails, only to find she wouldn’t have done so anyway.

Arg.

Frantically, she searched for something—anything to help her out—and sighed in relief when she found a nail clipper with a nail file attached.

It was not her finest moment, she said to herself as she cut her way through the fabric, but life returned to her in stages the more skin she revealed. When she was finally completely naked, in their bathroom, breathing just fine, thank you very much, she realized she didn’t have a plan B.

It was okay.

Plan B was her friend. Something would come up.

Right. She was going to take a shower, in their shower, some things just had to be done, and then she was going to go to the walk-in closet she saw on her way to the bathroom and find something. A T-shirt or something. Everything would be fine because nothing was going to take away from her revenge plans.

She took a shower, scrubbed off the talc and lube with their shower gel, and washed her hair with their shampoo. Then, standing in a towel, she roughly dried her hair with a blow dryer and went and found herself something to wear.

And it wasn’t as if she were on a deadline or anything.

Her dad’s best friends were not going anywhere anytime soon, anyway. They would just have to wait for part two of her revenge speech.