Chapter 5
Chapter Five
AUGUST
W e talk for hours. Hours. I have no idea what time it is, and I still don’t know her name, but we keep drinking the good scotch that Cyrus hates, and I’m drunk. She is too. The more she drinks, the more animated she becomes. Her golden-brown eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are flushed and the longer I look at her, the more beautiful she becomes. We talk about everything and nothing at all and all I can think about as I watch her mouth move is what she might look like with my cock nestled between her lips and I’m instantly hard.
Aching.
This woman isn’t interested in me that way though. I don’t think she is, at least, so why am I talking to her again? She doesn’t offer up any sultry glances or flirtatious remarks like every other woman at this party who’s dying to do exactly that once she gets in my presence.
No, this woman is straightforward and earnest, yet also mysterious and coy. I want to know more. I want to know everything, including how she tastes and what color her nipples are. I imagine they match the shade of her perfectly pink lips, which aren’t covered in lipstick or gloss, not even lip balm, which is jarring. Every woman who comes into this place slicks her mouth with an abundance of gloss, and then there’s Yolanda. Her lipstick is so damn dark, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without it and I probably wouldn’t recognize her if she showed up not wearing it. She keeps a tube of that stuff in every room possible in this house. I’m fairly certain there’s one sitting on my dresser at this very moment that I found in the hallway a few days ago.
Glancing around, I immediately wish I could banish everyone from this house. It's not private enough here. The older I am, the more boundaries I mentally and physically establish. I get sick of my fellow fraternity brothers and their antics, despite the fact I’m supposed to be a good example and lead them. I’m the fraternity president, a position I didn’t necessarily want but how could I turn it down when they offered it? If I had my choice, I’d fully move out of this house and never come back. I’m over it. I’m over pretty much everything in life lately, bored out of my skull…
Except for this woman sitting beside me on the velvet couch.
I stretch out my arm, desperate to touch her and I do, drifting my fingers along the inner crook of her elbow. She shivers, jerking her arm away from me and keeping it tucked firmly against her side.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” She sounds hesitant though and I second-guess myself for a split second before I speak.
“Are you not interested? In me?” I can’t help but ask because I’m drunk as fuck and why else would she not respond to me touching her. I can feel the chemistry brewing between us. Swirling all around us. And I don’t feel this sort of thing for just any woman.
Maybe I’m drunker than I realize. And I sound like an insecure little fuck which is borderline embarrassing, but again—I’m too inebriated to care.
She laughs and it’s the sweetest fucking sound, unlike anything I’ve heard before. “Why would you ask me that?”
I decide to be honest with her, something I rarely do. “You didn’t want me to touch you.”
Her smile is demure and she even ducks her head for a moment, watching me through her thick eyelashes. “I’m not here for a hookup.”
Well that’s a damn shame. All I can think about is getting her naked in my bed. “That’s why anyone is here tonight.”
“Not me.”
“Huh.” I’m baffled. “That’s too bad.”
She lifts her head, her eyes flaring wide. “You want to hook up with me? Really?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.” I keep my voice level, like what she said doesn’t bother me but fuck it. It bothers me. “Like I’ve already told you countless times. You’re beautiful.”
I clamp my lips shut, hating how forthcoming I’m being. I don’t do this sort of thing. A woman has its purposes in my life and that’s mostly for fucking. On occasion going to dinner, but damn. That always creates expectations that I can’t and won’t meet so I don’t bother.
Conversing with a woman all night while at a party isn’t something I normally do either but this woman is an exception. Have I just fallen for the “she’s not like other girls” nonsense?
Apparently so.
She waves a hand as if she’s sweeping away what I just said, a little hiccup escaping her. She immediately covers her mouth with said hand, her eyes widening all over again. “You’re drunk,” she murmurs from beneath her palm.
“No, I think you’re the drunk one.” I lean forward, carefully removing her hand from her face so I can stare at her unabashedly. “Tell me your name. ”
“Nope.” She shakes her head again and again. To the point I worry she’s going to make herself dizzy. “I’m not telling.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Life is unfair.” Her eyes narrow. “Someone said that to me once.”
Lots of people say that sort of shit all the damn time. “Who told you that?”
“No one important.”
“The person must’ve been somewhat important if you remember them saying that to you.”
“Fine.” She sighs, the sound almost sad. “My high school bully said it to me after one particular sadistic moment where he tortured me.” It’s her turn to lean in close and I catch the scent of her perfume. It’s rich and sweet and makes my nose twitch in a good way. In a I want to bury my face in her neck way.
“Tortured you?” I can hear the anger in my voice. Does she notice? And who the hell would torture her? She’s gorgeous. Interesting.
“Not literally, but he was awful. Made my life miserable for an entire year when I was in high school.”
“Tell me his name and I’ll ruin him,” I practically growl. “Financially. Socially. Whatever you want. I’ll destroy him.”
She throws her head back and laughs and laughs, like I just told her the most hilarious joke. All I can do is watch her, mesmerized by her, and I can’t even explain why. She’s not impressed by me whatsoever, and I’m used to every person I meet being impressed by me just by hearing my last name. Every woman I encounter wants to get my dick inside her in the hopes that I’ll fall madly in love with them and want to marry them. I can treat them like absolute garbage and they lap up my treatment like I’m spoiling them. It’s so fucking bizarre. And disappointing.
Not this girl. She claims she doesn’t know who I am and I tend to believe her. She doesn’t mention anything about the Lancaster family and she’s very much at ease with me, despite her reluctance to tell me anything.
There are diamonds in her ears and Van Cleef jewelry hanging from her neck and wrist, which means she definitely comes from money, but so many people who go to this school are wealthy. She’s also classy. Her clothing isn’t garish and her shoes look expensive, and when you’ve been around wealthy people your entire life, you can just tell. She has that rich girl air about her, but she’s oblivious to who I am and I like it.
And I never thought I’d like that sort of thing. I revel in being August Lancaster. I act like a dick because everyone allows me the privilege. The only person I’m not a dick to is my mother. That woman is a saint. She has to be to stay with my father, because dear old Dad is a bigger dick than I ever could be. I aspire to be exactly like him one day and work hard to emulate Whit Lancaster in every way possible. To the point that it’s become second nature. Most of the time, I do a damn good job of it too.
Not tonight though.
“I’m serious,” I tell her when the laughter finally dies. “I’ll take him out. I know people.”
I sound like a mafioso, which is fucking ridiculous, but it’s true. I do know people who can do all sorts of things for a price, like my uncle Spencer. When money is no object, you have access to people and their services that the common man wouldn’t be able to fathom.
“I appreciate the offer.” Her smile is blinding, it’s so big. “But he’s already dead to me.”