Chapter 55 #2
The judge’s nostrils flare as he takes a step forward, but I smile dulcetly, dipping my chin. I slide my arm back around Ford’s bicep and nudge him gently to move. Luckily, he gets the memo and before Atkins can do anything reckless, we’re gliding toward the next throng.
“What the fuck was that?” he hisses under his breath, but I choose not to answer. It doesn’t concern him.
Chatter swirls around me, and I take the opportunity to scan the cavernous room. I spot Henry near the bar and wink the moment his wife turns her head. His cheeks pinken, and I grin as I continue my perusal, registering all the guests in attendance.
Just as I’m about to refocus on the conversation happening in front of me, I catch sight of Percy York by the entrance. Is he leaving? Or did he just arrive? Richard Aubrey stands next to him with Theo Jackson and Marshall Potter. Perfect.
“Excuse me,” I murmur to the group I’m with when there’s a break in the conversation, my hand slipping from Ford’s arm as I stride confidently across the room.
I still have two choices when it comes to these men: seduction or destruction. This time, the path forward is crystal clear.
I’m only about ten yards from the group of men when my wrist is ensnared, and I’m yanked toward a forest-green door with an ornate gold handle. My eyebrows slash, and I frown as I attempt to free my hand.
“Ford,” I assert, my voice low and threatening.
He doesn’t release me, though. He drifts as effortlessly as water, shielding my body from view as he shuffles me into the bathroom. To the rest of the room, I’m sure it appears as though he’s simply a husband who can’t get enough of his wife, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Inside the bathroom, he flips the lock, sealing us both inside this extravagant restroom with black marble, green, and gold adorning every square inch.
Practically breathing smoke, I take a meaningful step toward him, ignoring the fact that he looks damn good when he’s mad.
And he is. Fury rolls off him in sonic waves, invisible yet powerful, and part of me wants to absorb his ire, letting it feed my own. Then I remember that I don’t need an iota of assistance in the rage category.
“What the hell are you doing?” he seethes, prowling toward me. When we’re toe-to-toe, he adds, “You made an enemy out of Judge Atkins. What were you going to do when you reached Percy York? The same thing? You’re more intelligent than that.”
Lips pursed, I narrow my gaze. He’s delusional if he thinks I’m going to spill my pretty little brain to him.
He’s not on my side. My circle is small, comprised only of me, Corinne, and Marcus.
Sure, Ford helped me out with Stafford, and I’m grateful.
I might still be in prison if it weren’t for him, but it’s difficult to muster any enthusiasm about giving him a seat at my table when he’s the one who arrested me in the first place.
He studies me—and my silence—for several beats before he cocks his head and the scowl he wears softens, shifting into something almost inquisitive. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?”
I don’t reply, don’t confirm that he’s one hundred percent correct. He steps in closer, siphoning all the oxygen in the small room, and I can feel him everywhere though he’s yet to actually touch me. But when he does, it’s both simple and complex, and wholly bewitching.
The backs of his knuckles skate across my cheek like bubbles floating atop a water’s surface, gliding seamlessly over my skin. It’s an effort in willpower not to sink into the stroke.
Each time his body connects with mine, it’s like taking a single bite of a meal you’ve been craving for years, thoroughly satisfying and entirely insufficient. I want more than a taste; I want the feast.
“I want in on your plans.”
I rear back, wedging some necessary distance between us. “Why the fuck would I tell you?”
His hand falls way, and he lets out a heavy sigh as he shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed. I can’t say I blame him; I’m equally as exasperated. This line of questioning has grown tiresome.
Blue irises drill into me intently as he eats the distance I forced between us again. I’m acutely aware of how close I am to the wall at my back, and I refuse to retreat further. I don’t want to be pinned. My good judgment is hanging on by a fraying thread.
“Because,” he starts, strong and unreservedly dominant. “I’m on your team, but you’ve locked me out of the game.”
I clench my fists at my sides. “Players shouldn’t betray the coach,” I spit back.
Thrusting his hand into his gorgeous hair, he tugs on the ends. “At my core, I’m a soldier, Gen, a weapon. Let me fight for you.”
My shoulders droop as my stomach clenches. Could I use the help? Sure. But it’ll be a cold day in Hell when I ask for it. I just can’t seem to make my mouth form those words. I’ve been on my own for so long; I’ve created a stubbornly independent streak a mile wide.
He advances. Without thinking, I retreat until my back is pressed against the wall, the bare skin connecting with the cool, painted wood. Reaching up, he plants a palm over my head, caging me in. As he peers down into my eyes, the urge to brush my lips against his gnaws at me like a rabid animal.
“You can trust me, but I don’t mind spending every day proving it. I know asking for help is hard for you, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t give you.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” I assert defiantly. Technically, Ford has proved that he’s here for me, on my side, but that’s difficult for me to accept, even if, deep down, I want to.
“You will.” His words coat my skin in a thick layer of longing. My chest heaves as my stomach flips and my pussy clenches. This is just lust. I’m lying to myself, but the alternative is harder to admit.
He brings his hand up to rest on the column of my neck.
The touch is grounding, and I lean into it, unable to shut down the desire swimming in my veins.
We both seem to be transfixed on one another, smoldering heat between us growing warmer by the second until his voice slices through the weighted silence once more.
“Well?” he prompts, and my lashes flutter.
“Well, what?” My voice is drenched with barely concealed eroticism.
He smirks, like he knows he’s affecting me. “Do you need some encouragement to ask for help?”
That statement snatches me out my haze, and I scoff, rolling my eyes.
His fingers on my throat tighten, making my blood fizz. “Turn around. Palms flat on the counter.”