Chapter 23 #2
Jameson and Vivian laugh good-naturedly. “Maybe they should meet.”
It takes everything in me not to scrunch up my face.
“Blair isn’t looking to meet anyone,” Calvin growls before I can speak.
The shift in his voice is so sharp we all turn. His jaw is clenched so hard I swear I can see the shape of his molars. Abigail laughs, a little uncertain now.
“Why is that?” she asks, her voice laced with teasing suspicion.
Calvin takes a long swig of another drink. When did he even grab that one?
“Because,” he says sharply, not looking at me, “she has a boyfriend. A good one. Isn’t that right? You told me you had a boyfriend you were happy with.”
His tone carries a sharp warning, and I’ve finally had enough.
“I did,” I say flatly. “But not anymore. It’s over.”
Jameson, Vivian, and Abigail look between us like they’re watching a tennis match.
“Oh?” Calvin asks coolly. “Why is that?”
I flash my best fake smile. “Turns out he’s a lying piece of shit.”
Vivian gasps, clutching her pearls. Abigail stares, dumbfounded. Calvin looks like he’s one second away from dragging me out of this ballroom and bending me over the nearest surface.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say sweetly, and turn on my heel, walking away before I start screaming, or worse, crying.
I don’t get far before I feel Abigail’s hand wrap around my arm, gently pulling me to a stop.
“Whoa, hey, stop a second. Are you okay?” she asks.
Annoyed and overwhelmed, I yank off my mask and exhale hard. “Yeah, Abby, I’m fine. But honestly… if you don’t mind, I think I’m just going to leave. Maybe head to Mom and Dad’s.”
Her brows knit together. “I didn’t know, baby. I didn’t know you and Dylan broke up. I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was that serious between you.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Honestly, it was for the best. I just don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“Blair…”
“Please, Abby, I just… I want to go home,” I say, exhausted by the day—hell, the month.
“Don’t go, please. I need you with me. How about you go to the bar, get yourself a drink, and wait for me as soon as I’m done with this meeting?
I’ll take you back to the penthouse, and we’ll hang out, just the two of us like we used to,” she says, looking genuinely worried about me.
Even though that’s the last thing I want, I figure I owe her.
“Okay, but please don’t make me wait too long. I’m tired,” I lie.
“Thank you, and I won’t.” She kisses my cheeks before leaving me alone.
A few minutes later, I’m nursing a French 75, half of it already gone. The bubbles do nothing to lift the weight in my chest. Then I hear a familiar voice behind me.
“Well, damn. I knew that was you.”
I turn, eyes widening as I come face to face with a ghost from my past.
“Shawn?” I blink, stunned. “What are you doing here?”
He grins, boyish and too confident. “My dad got an invitation and had me come along so I can network, whatever that means. But forget that, look at you, Blair Miller. Still stunning.”
I chuckle awkwardly. “Still full of it, huh?”
He laughs, stepping in just a bit closer. “Maybe. But I’m serious. You look incredible.”
Shawn, the guy who took my virginity senior year. The guy who taught me a little about kissing and a lot about nothing. We were never in love. It was high school. It fizzled out after graduation.
Still, the attention is flattering. He flirts, and I let him. He leans in close, lips brushing my ear.
“Dance with me,” he murmurs, and the hairs on my arms rise, but not because of him.
Because I feel it.
Eyes. Heat. I glance around, and there he is.
Calvin.
Standing a few feet back from the crowd, dressed in black and gold, mask still on, but I can feel the fire burning from behind it. He’s glaring at Shawn like he’s seconds away from tearing his head off.
Then, subtly and slowly, he shakes his head.
A warning.
The bastard thinks he has the right to warn me? Now?
I inhale sharply, forcing a smile as I turn back to Shawn. “Sure. Let’s dance.”
We step onto the floor, and Shawn’s hand finds my waist like it’s done so a hundred times before. His palm slides lower, fingers splaying ever so slightly, like he’s testing the boundaries.
But I’m not really with him.
My body’s moving with Shawn, but my pulse is synced to someone else entirely.
Across the room, Calvin’s eyes are on me, unblinking. He doesn’t say a word, but I hear him loud and clear. His stare pins me in place, hard and unforgiving.
His jaw ticks. He lifts his glass, watching me the entire time, and drinks like he’s trying to kill the fury burning in his throat.
Then, he sets it down. Hard.
He steps forward.
Once.
Twice.
His movements are controlled. But there’s something barely restrained in the way he stalks toward us. Like he’s seconds from tearing the room apart just to remind me exactly who I belong to.
Shawn leans in, oblivious to what he’s walking into, his hand slipping lower. A spark of panic ignites in my chest.
Calvin keeps walking.
Shit. Is he really going to cause a scene? Here? In front of everyone? In front of Abigail?
I rip myself away. “Sorry, I need the restroom,” I blurt, my voice too high, too rushed.
I don’t wait for Shawn to respond because I know if Calvin takes one more step, this whole night will burn.
The second I’m out of the crowd, I duck away, mask back in place, heels clicking as I speed-walk toward the nearest empty hallway. The air is too thick and too hot. I can’t breathe.
I just need a minute.
Just a goddamn minute to breathe.
Within seconds, I hear footsteps echo down the marble hallway, and when I lift my head, I see him.
He doesn’t speak. Just walks toward me with that unrelenting stare, his jaw clenched tight, fire practically blazing through the eye holes of his mask.
“No,” I whisper, voice trembling. “Just, no. Don’t do this. Not here.”
His response is a low, lethal murmur. “Shut up.”
Then his hand is on my arm. Not hurting, but unyielding.
“Calvin—”
He doesn’t stop. He yanks open the nearest door and drags me inside. An elegant bathroom, too pristine for the storm he brings in with us. Marble counters. Gilded fixtures. The faint scent of roses and expensive soap.
He lets go of my arm, but before I can even breathe, he’s on me.
His mouth claims mine, greedily. Lips, teeth, tongue, all of him demanding everything. He kisses like he’s starving, like he’s trying to consume every thought I’ve ever had that didn’t include him. And God help me, I respond.
Sound spills out of me. Soft, needy sounds only he’s ever pulled from me. It takes me longer than I want to admit to find my head, to remember who we are, what this is.
I push at his chest. Pointless. He’s a wall.
“Calv…”
His grip tightens.
“I thought I told you to shut up,” he growls.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I choke out, the truth ripping out of me. “You’re engaged to my sister.”
His eyes flash. “Is that why you had him all over you? Because I’m engaged to your sister?”
I open my mouth, something bitter and biting on the tip of my tongue, but he doesn’t give me the chance.
He spins me around and yanks me back against him. I gasp. He’s hard, furious, pressed against my lower back like a brand.
He brushes my hair aside, his lips at my neck, kissing, licking, biting just hard enough that I know there’ll be bruises. Proof.
I moan despite myself, rocking back into him. I hate this. I hate him. I hate how my body betrays me every single time.
But when Calvin touches me like this, I forget everything, even the reasons I should walk away.
I turn my head just enough for him to crash his mouth against mine punishingly. Our teeth clash, lips bruise. There’s no space between us, just heat and fury and history.
He breaks the kiss only to bend me over, pressing me hard against the wall. My hands shoot out to brace myself as I let him do what he wants, what we want. One hand slides up my bare thigh, pushing my dress higher until it’s bunched around my hips.
He groans, low and guttural, a sound that shoots straight to my core.
Then, smack, his hand connects with my ass, the sting blooming across my skin before he soothes it with a soft, sinful caress.
“Don’t you ever remove my hand when I’m trying to touch you,” he growls. “And Peach, don’t you ever let another man touch what’s mine.”
Another smack. Another soothing stroke.
“Tell me you understand,” he demands. “Say it. Say it, Blair.”
“I hate you,” I whisper, breathless.
He laughs darkly. “No, you don’t.”
And then he’s tearing down my already ruined thong.
I watch as he puts it in his pocket. His hand grabs my chin, turning my head so he can devour me again, rough and demanding, like he’s punishing me for existing, for being in his life, for making him want this.
His hands are everywhere, pulling, sliding under silk, gripping my hips like they belong to him.
Then his fingers slide between my thighs, and I gasp.
He groans. “You’re soaked, Peach. This for me?” His voice is wicked, taunting. “Or that fucker?”
But I know he doesn’t want an answer, because his fingers slide into me, two at once, stretching me, owning me.
“Oh fuck,” I cry out.
“Goddamn it…” he growls, adding a third. “So wet. So tight. So fucking perfect. Always so fucking perfect.”
His mouth is everywhere, biting my shoulder, my back, my earlobe. Branding me.
“You’re mine,” he says against my skin. “Say it.”
“No,” I pant, defiant even now.
He laughs again, the dark, dangerous sound curling in my gut. “Then I guess I’ll just have to fuck the truth out of you.”
I hear the zipper. Then he’s freeing himself, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
And when he drives into me with one brutal, punishing thrust, my entire world shatters. He’s angry and desperate.
“Fuck, Calvin!”
“Louder,” he snaps, hips slamming into mine. “Let the whole damn ball know who’s fucking you. Who owns you!”
His hand wraps around my throat, not choking but claiming as he pounds into me, again and again, each thrust a demand, a warning being burned into my soul.