7. Lena
Seven
Lena
B lowjobs are so funny. Everyone acts like it’s degrading, like the person on their knees is the one who’s vulnerable, but hey—Weston James’s cock is dangerously near my teeth right now, and every time he calls me princess , I think about chomping down. Who’s really vulnerable here?
There’s trust in this act.
There’s power in being the one on my knees.
And I’m gonna savor every delicious second of it.
“ Lena. Fuck.”
My father’s ex-protege may pride himself on his poker face, on keeping his thoughts and emotions buttoned up, but once I’ve got my hands on his body, Weston James is surprisingly responsive. His hands twitch and tighten on me when I lick a long stripe up the base of his shaft; he hisses through his teeth when I reach into his underwear to cup his balls.
They’re soft and heavy and warm in my palm, and when I massage them gently, Weston lets out a low groan above me.
“Oh, shit. That’s it, princess. Just like that.”
Hearing that stupid nickname, my ardor cools a couple degrees, and I slide my hand back out of his underwear. I decide right this second: only nice guys get ball rubs from me.
Still, I’m too far gone to call off this whole thing—my skin is flushed hot and my legs beneath me are pure jelly. Every time my ass shifts against my heels, there’s an answering throb between my thighs.
I want this man.
Heedless of the fact that he hates me, I bury my nose by the base of Weston’s cock and inhale. That clean, musky scent of him, with a hint of soap and sweat—it’s like a drug to my system. My head swims, and my nipples ache.
“You’re a jerk,” I tell Weston, peering up the miles and miles of sculpted male body to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark and stormy, and his lips part as he stares back. “You’ve been such a jerk to me. You think I can help who my parents are?”
His eyebrows pinch together. “Lena—”
“It doesn’t matter. Hate me all you want. We both know that you still crave this .”
My lips stretch around the head of Weston’s cock, sucking the first few inches inside. He’s somehow even bigger the closer you get, weighing heavy and thick on my tongue, and my cheeks hollow as I suckle and slurp. He tastes a little salty, and I hum and bob my head.
“Oh shit .” Weston’s shoulders are curved over, his whole body cringing forward like he’s been punched in the gut. So long, prideful posture. Hello, man who leans back on the wall for balance. “Lena. Christ. Your mouth. Your fucking mouth—”
I’d say something back, but I was always taught not to speak with my mouth full. Instead I raise an eyebrow up at Weston, one of my hands pumping the base of his cock while the other digs five fingernails into his rock-hard thigh. Even through the fabric of his suit pants, I can feel his body shudder beneath my touch.
This whole pose might look more badass if his cock didn’t hit the back of my throat and make my eyes go all watery. I glare up at Weston, squeezing his cock even tighter in warning, but he shakes his head quickly.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I won’t thrust, I swear.”
Whatever. As if this man wouldn’t just love to see me raccoon-eyed and ruined. And maybe Weston James trusts me enough to feed his magnificent length between my teeth, but I do not trust him.
Do I want him? Yes. Do I have hot, flustered daydreams about him all day every day? Absolutely. Do I lie awake at night and wish that he saw me differently? Of course.
But am I gonna show him a single scrap of weakness?
Hell no.
Despite what Weston thinks of me, I’m no fool. I have no illusions about what this is between us. This is hate and pure animal magnetism, all twisted up together in a vicious braid.
Liar , a voice whispers in my brain, and my heart pangs in agreement—but whatever. It’s all hate from Weston’s side, anyways. Doesn’t matter if I think he’s the best man I know.
“So good,” he’s muttering now, rubbing his thumb back and forth along my jaw as I suck and kiss and lick my way all over his shaft. “So good, Lena.”
The praise is unexpected, and I’m embarrassed to admit that it makes me go all bright and sparkly inside. You know, if this man said nice things to me outside of the bedroom, he’d be freaking lethal.
My breathy moans are muffled by his cock, but when Weston notices me squirming against my own heels, he inhales sharply and tugs on my hair.
“You’re getting off too, aren’t you? Oh, shit. That’s it. Show me how you come with my cock in your mouth, princess.”
It’s too late to stop now, even with that nickname ringing in my ears. I’m too hot, too trembly, too slick between my thighs. There’s a hollow ache in my lower belly, and my pulse thunders everywhere —in my throat, my wrists, my clit.
Weston tugs my hair again, and I let out a helpless moan.
My ass rocks down harder, humping my own heels, and bright spots burst in front of my eyes as I freeze up, breath stalled in my lungs. It’s—it’s happening. Oh god.
Whenever I’ve made myself come before, it’s been nice but… muted. A quick pop of pleasure, and then done.
If those were fireworks, this is a towering inferno. It sweeps through every inch of my body, shuddering my muscles and making my nerve endings spark, turning everything to ash. I’m ravaged by it, buffeted by burning waves of pleasure, until the only thing grounding me in space and time is the weight of Weston’s rock-hard shaft in my mouth.
It jerks against my tongue, and distantly, as though down the end of a bad phone line, I hear Weston grit out a low curse. He tugs my hair in warning, but I couldn’t pull off of him right now even if I wanted to. I’m locked in place, coming harder than I ever have in my life, as spurts of hot liquid fill my mouth.
I drink him down.
God, I swallow every single, salty drop like it’s manna from heaven.
Then, when I’ve settled back in my body and my ears have stopped ringing, I sit back on my heels and show Weston my clean tongue. He slumps against the wall above me, breathless and staring, like I’ve delivered a killer blow.
I wink, then wobble to my feet.
“Well, that was fun.” My hands tremble as I yank my cocktail dress straight, but I play it off, tossing my ponytail back. “Where shall I clean now?”
Weston pinches the bridge of his nose.
* * *
My parents are still awake when I get back to the townhouse, sent home early by an agitated Weston. He claimed a migraine, said he didn’t want to babysit my ass all the way until dawn, but we both know it was down to my awesome blowjob. Point to me!
I sucked out his freaking soul, and I don’t feel bad for one single second. All’s fair in love and war, right? And Weston picked war.
“Thanks,” I tell the driver, closing the door of a glossy black car. God knows why Weston insists on sending me home with his driver each night after torturing me, but I’m not gonna question it. It’s not like we have tons of money lying around for cross-city Ubers right now.
The man nods and pulls away from the sidewalk, having graciously ignored my reddened lips and mussed hair for the whole journey. A true professional.
My steps are pensive as I climb to the townhouse door, and I take my time sliding the key into the lock. The lights are on inside, and already the butterflies flapping around my insides are faltering at the thought of seeing my parents like this—with Weston’s salty taste still on my tongue.
There’s nothing else for it. Can’t sleep out here on the steps, can I? And I’ll have to face them sooner or later.
The townhouse door swings open on oiled hinges without a squeak, and for the hundredth time tonight, I thank myself for not wearing heels. My steps into the lobby are quiet, and I hold my breath as I tug the belt of my trench coat undone.
“Lena?” my mother calls.
I exhale and slip my coat off, hanging it on a hook. So close, yet so far.
“Lena? Is that you?”
“Hey,” I call back, my cheeks warming at the scratchy note in my voice. My throat sounds well-used. If my parents have even an ounce of observational skills between them, I’m screwed. “Where are you both?”
“Kitchen.”
They’re both sitting on stools at the kitchen island, a bottle of red wine open between them. Their glasses sparkle in the overhead light, and there’s a fancy takeout bag in the middle of the island. When I tilt my head, I can make out the name of one of the fanciest restaurants in the city.
My stomach sinks and curdles.
“What are you doing?” I rasp.
“Eating dinner,” my father says, like it’s a dumb question. He tops off his own glass before offering more wine to my mother. “Are you hungry, princess? We over-ordered. There are a few dishes we haven’t even touched.”
My hands and feet are so cold. Like all the warmth in my body is drawing away from my limbs, gathering in the center of my chest to smolder in a hot, angry coal.
“No,” I say, “I mean what are you doing? Ordering from an expensive restaurant and drinking–” I check the label “—vintage wine, when you’re so deep in debt. When I put my life on hold to come back here and help you.”
When I made a devil’s bargain with Weston James, letting the man I’ve pined after for years humiliate me for his own entertainment. I’ve chipped away at my pride, my heart, my soul to help them, and for what?
My father scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lena. We still need to eat.”
“There’s food in the refrigerator.” Food that I bought with my earnings, from the job I left for them.
“You know your mother can’t cook,” my father says.
Holy hell. A headache flares behind my right eye, and I rub at my temple. “You should buy something cheaper, then. Get Taco Bell. Get instant ramen and learn to boil water.”
My mother gasps like I just drop-kicked a kitten.
“We still have standards, Lena.” My father is angry now, his volume climbing. “The Merritt name brings certain expectations. We have an image to uphold, and that image means quality restaurants. Good wine, tailored clothes, our townhouse. All non-negotiables.”
The townhouse? My headache throbs even worse, and I shake my head.
“Tell me you didn’t send that realtor away.”
My mother scoffs and mutters something under her breath, while my father says, “She was useless. That woman had no idea what this place is worth, what we are worth.”
“You are ‘worth’ a negative amount! That’s what debt means!”
My father’s palm slams down on the kitchen island, rattling the wine glasses. My mother shrieks, her stool scraping against the tiles.
“That’s enough,” he spits, his eyes narrowed and his face flushed. Thinking back, I’ve seen my father throw plenty of these tantrums in his life—usually toward innocent servers in restaurants or hotel staff, or often with his old employees at the Merritt. Weston must have weathered most of all.
They’ve never been directed at me before. Some tiny part of me dies in the face of it—the part of me that was still a little girl who loved her dad.
“Don’t swan in here,” my father grits out, forcing each word between his teeth, “acting like Miss Morally Superior, when you’ve been rolling around Weston James’s bed for cash.”
I suck in a sharp breath. The room swims.
“That is not our deal—”
“No daughter of mine would whore herself out to a man like that.” My father sniffs and picks up his wine, dismissing me from his universe. When he speaks again, it’s to my mother. “I don’t know where we went wrong with her. All the right schools, the vacations, the piano lessons and French tutors. And this is how she repays us?”
My mother strokes his arm and soothes him with hushed words, while I turn on my heel and walk woodenly from the kitchen. Our conversation plays over and over in my head, every awful word, and as I brush my teeth and slide between my sheets, the horror doesn’t fade at all. It only gets worse and worse, climbing up my throat until it chokes me. I flop onto my front, my face wet with tears.
I’ve given everything to save my parents. But I can’t save them from themselves—and I can’t force them to love me like parents should.
When dawn peeks around the edges of the curtains and sleep finally comes, it’s a blessed relief.