11. Lena
Eleven
Lena
W hen I get home just after midnight, the townhouse lights are on again. Dread pools in my stomach as I slide my key into the front door, but there’s no anticipation. Not really. I already know what I’ll find past the threshold.
The door swings open. My heels click softly against the marble foyer floor, and I tug the belt of my trench coat loose with a sigh as the front door clicks shut behind me. Voices murmur in the kitchen. Music plays softly too, drifting through the townhouse, along with the scent of another luxurious dinner.
Yup.
They’ve done it again. Ordered expensive take-out from one of the finest restaurants in the city, because as far as the Merritts are concerned, that is their due.
No need to go and double check. No need to confirm what I already know, what I should have figured out a year ago: my parents will never change.
Not until some outside force makes them change.
For their sakes, I hope the reckoning isn’t deadly.
My stomach churns as I climb the townhouse stairs, too sick with the thought of hammers and kneecaps and my stupid, proud parents getting taught the harshest lesson of all. I love them, but after everything they’ve said and done… I hate them, too. Still, I don’t want to see them hurt.
That won’t happen. Not this time, anyway—not after my deal with Weston pays out. But after this week… my parents are on their own.
I can’t save them from themselves. It’s not my job, and I’m done trying.
The beige carpet in my bedroom is thick, my heels sinking as I step inside. I kick my heels off and sling my trench coat over a cushioned chair by the door.
Even though I grew up in this room, spent years of my life in this space, it’s never felt like mine. It’s always been blandly beautiful—the work of an interior decorator. Fine furniture and neutral tones. There’s no hint of me in this bedroom.
There are no cringey teenage posters on the walls; no photos of my school friends taped to the mirror. No bright colors or roller blades or spots of nail polish on the carpet.
Before I went to Switzerland, I never noticed how claustrophobic this room feels. How hard it is to breathe here.
Since coming back… well, I can’t rent my own place soon enough. And no, I will not take my parents with me. They took that offer and threw it back in my face.
My bare feet sink into the carpet as I cross to the en suite bathroom, tugging my dress over my head as I go. It’s a perverse pleasure to drop it in the middle of the floor, breaking up the sea of flawless beige.
Inside the bathroom, I set the shower running and stare at myself in the mirror. My lips are bitten red, swollen and sensual. My dark hair is mussed. There’s a soft patch of pink behind my ear on the left side, where Weston’s stubble abraded the delicate skin.
Weston.
A full-body shiver wracks my reflection in the mirror. I’ve shoved every thought of him to the back of my mind, stuffed what happened tonight into a lock box in my brain, but I can’t distract myself any longer. Even the shit show with my parents isn’t enough to keep Weston James off my mind.
My hands move in the mirror, stroking up both sides of my waist. My breaths quicken as I picture his hands instead, big and strong and possessive as they touch my body.
Biting my abused bottom lip, I snake one hand behind me and pop my ivory lace bra free. It falls to the tiles, and then I’m bared. Completely naked, because a certain arrogant casino owner took my panties home in his pocket, winking at me when he tucked them away.
My clit throbs in time with my heartbeat. My reflection squeezes her thighs together, a flush crawling up her chest and neck.
Has Weston touched my panties again yet? Rubbed his thumb against the lace? Wrapped them around his cock and jerked himself to completion, my name gritted between his teeth?
Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the edges of the mirror, and I inhale sharply before turning and stepping into the shower.
The water is hot, drumming against my stiff shoulders and back. I turn slowly under the spray, soaping every inch of my skin, startled by how alien my whole body feels now that Weston has touched it.
Not in a bad way. It’s more like he found a secret switch behind my ear, and now every nerve ending in my body has lit up like a circuit board. My nipples are so sensitive, I stifle a groan as I soap them. My legs tremble as I wash between my thighs, breath catching at how slick and swollen I still feel.
Those were just his fingers.
Imagine Weston’s thick cock, pressing inside and splitting me wide. Imagine his bruising grip on my hips, and the rhythmic thrust of his body into mine. Imagine—
“ Shit .”
My whisper is lost in the drumming shower spray. Slumping against the wall, I rest my overheated forehead against the tiles, even as my fingers delve between my legs once more.
Let me fuck you tomorrow, baby. Let me spread you out on my desk and make you mine.
I bite my lip against a groan, rubbing feverish circles around my clit. Tension twists in my lower belly, my body complaining at how empty it feels without Weston’s fingers to ride. When the tension breaks, the pleasure is sharp and shallow and wholly unsatisfying now that I’ve had the real thing.
My forehead thumps gently against the wall.
I’m gonna do it, aren’t I? I’m gonna let Weston James ruin me for all other men.
And when he inevitably breaks my heart, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.
* * *
The next evening, I dress myself with military precision. Every inch of my outfit, my makeup, my hair—it’s all chosen with one aim in mind.
It’s armor.
Because if Weston James breaks my heart after tonight, if he gets what he wants then turns me away afterward… I will never let him see how much that hurts me. That’s my promise to myself.
My lingerie is dark purple silk; my dress is steel gray with a high neckline but a plunging back. I slide on my highest, stabbiest heels and slick my lips with red. My dark hair is swept over one shoulder. The black trench coat is the final touch, the belt cinched at my waist.
A stranger stares back at me in my bedroom mirror, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. I look excited. I am excited.
I also look ready to crush a certain casino owner under my heel, and you know what? That’s accurate, too.
The journey to Merritt’s is agonizingly slow, the streets clogged with traffic. I stare out of the tinted window in the backseat and count my breaths.
Nearly there.
So close.
Then I’ll be with him , running into his strong arms. Relishing his possessive hold; feeling treasured for once in my life, even if it’s all wishful thinking on my part.
Even this is just another mind game.
Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Trying to figure that out kept me awake for hours last night, tossing and turning restlessly in my bed, but I drew no conclusions. Some things we have to learn the hard way.
When we finally pull up outside the Merritt, I fling my door open before the driver can even move an inch.
“Thank you!”
My heels clatter against the sidewalk, then I’m gasping out a hello to the doorman. The lobby is a blur around me, and so is the first casino floor, the back corridors, the stairwell. I fly along my usual route, static fizzing in my brain, and the whole way I can only think one thing: Weston. Weston. Weston.
When I lectured myself last night, trying to protect some dignity, I told myself to play it cool when I reached his office. To knock, and wait, and stroll inside like I haven’t a care in the world. Like I don’t care either way whether Weston James fucks me tonight or not.
Whether he loves me.
Instead I fling the door open without warning, barging inside the office at full speed. Weston turns from where he’s brooding by the windows, his hands shoved in his pockets, and his expression darkens when he sees me.
I gain speed.
He moves too.
And we collide in the center of the office, hands tearing at clothes, mouths slamming together in the world’s fiercest first kiss.
“ Mmph .”
Can’t speak with our lips sealed together, so I let out a strangled noise instead, yanking at his suit jacket, his shoulders, his collar. This man is so freaking big compared to me, so much taller and broader, and I want to shimmy up all his sculpted perfection like a monkey climbing a tree.
Weston tears his mouth away, breathing hard. His gaze snags on something over my shoulder: the wide-open office door, exposing us to any nosy assistants who might pass by.
Weston growls. Then he slides a forearm beneath my ass and lifts me into the air, carrying me as easily as a stack of files over to the door.
“Fuck that,” Weston declares, as though I just suggested we should let that Ariq guy watch us lose our minds. The door slams shut, and the lock spins with a thud. “No one sees you like this but me, Lena.”
My fingernails dig harder into his shoulders. I’m plastered against Weston’s chest, our bodies melded so close that I can feel the hard planes and ridged abs through his shirt, and I’d love to come up with a snappy reply, but my brain has turned to soup.
“Please,” is all I can say, tugging roughly at his shirt. My fingers are clumsy, fumbling his buttons undone before I slide my hands beneath the fabric, stroking over heated bare skin. Dark chest hairs tickle my palms, and oh god, if this was all a test, I’ve definitely failed it.
Don’t care anymore about dignity.
Don’t care about my pride.
All I want, all I need, is for Weston to kiss me again, and to use his tongue this time.
The casino owner’s laugh is breathless. He carries me back toward the desk, letting me pet his bare chest and squirm against his front, those icy blue eyes fixed on me in wonder.
Does he feel this too? Does he want me too, for more than five nights?
“Please,” I beg again, finding his nipple beneath his shirt and scraping it with my fingernail. Weston’s low grunt makes my thighs tremble. “Please, I’ve been… all last night and all today, I’ve been…”
He waits, seemingly fascinated to hear what I’ve been , but I cut myself off, scowling.
It’s bad enough that I’m whining for him like this, literally begging for his touch. Weston doesn’t need to know how badly he’s knocked me off center. That I’m ruined for him, a full-blown addict, when there’s every chance he still hates my guts. This could all be part of his master plan to break my spirit.
My shoulders go firm. I raise my chin and give Weston my coldest glare, though my frosty demeanor wobbles when I notice the smudge of red lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Where else can I mark him before the night is up? His throat? His stomach? His cock?
“Get on with it, then,” I snap. Weston’s mouth twitches with amusement, and god, that just makes me want to beat his chest and howl. How dare he be so composed right now? Level-headed and sane, when I’m bursting at the seams?
Such bullshit.
“You’re like a maelstrom,” Weston murmurs, carrying me behind the desk and finally setting me down on the hard surface. Are there normally papers here, or a laptop? My fevered brain can’t remember for sure, but the idea of Weston clearing this space so he can spread me out on it is pleasing.
Yeah, screw his work! I’m here now. I could purr.
“This coat,” Weston says, taking each end of the belt in one hand. He pauses, like he’s relishing the moment. “This fucking coat.”
A laugh bubbles out of me as he tugs the belt undone, slowly, savoring. And it’s funny, because yeah—I’ve noticed that my trench coat gets under his skin. Something about it makes the casino owner restless, and when my dress for each night is finally revealed, some of the tension around his eyes bleeds away.
But it’s just a normal coat, nothing especially fitted or flirty. A standard piece of clothing. And yet Weston’s chest rises with a hungry breath when he peels the two sides apart to reveal my gray dress beneath, his eyes sparking with interest.
“You like undressing me.” My voice is hoarse, but it holds steady. Whatever advantage I can take, whatever weakness I can point out, I will.
He hums, pushing the coat off my shoulders. Snaking my arms out of the sleeves, I let it drop to the desk behind me.
“Clearly,” Weston says.
Like it’s so obvious. Like he’d be a complete idiot not to like that.
Gah!
“Seems like you don’t loathe me as much as you claim.”
Is that a desperate note in my voice? God, I hate it. I hate how exposed I feel right now, even though I’ve only lost my outer layer of clothing; hate that my arms ache to wind around Weston’s neck again and press our bodies together.
I’m as vulnerable as a hermit crab without its shell right now, and he’s only removed my coat. And what’s worse is Weston sees it. He sees everything.
His hands are soothing as they stroke up my sides. His expression is serious as he dips his head and presses our mouths together for the second time. For a long moment, I’m floating, flying, lost in his kiss, my legs sliding apart so he can step between them. He does.
Then: “I don’t loathe you,” Weston murmurs against my mouth in between kisses. “You couldn’t be further from the truth, Lena.”
My heart glows like a happy little coal in my chest, even as my brain yells about how this is all a trick.
Mayday! Mayday! Enemy attack on our defences!
“I don’t believe you,” I say, but I lunge up for another kiss. Rougher this time, with our tongues stroking together, my fingers twisting in his hair. Before we part for oxygen, I nip Weston’s lower lip and taste the coppery tang of blood.
He grunts, sounding annoyed for the first time tonight, but he doesn’t step away. If anything, he seems to get bigger, closer, pressing between my spread thighs so that the hard line of his cock nudges against my underwear.
“You’re not going to chase me away, Lena.” Weston rocks his hips forward to prove his point. “Do you feel that? That’s what you came here for tonight. That’s what you’re going to get.”
It’s embarrassing, the way relief crashes through my insides.
Yes. That’s what I need.
Not Weston’s clearly fake claims of affection; not his wondering stare, like I’m some kind of miracle. I need his cock, thick and hard and relentless between my thighs: the only part of him that can’t lie to me.
Nothing more.
But first, the bastard steps back, breaking my hold around his neck. He inhales deeply through his nose, scanning my rumpled, flush body from head to toe, then gives a vicious smile.
“Lay back, Lena. I’m going to taste you.”