24. Con
Con
When I wake up, the girl from last night is gone. No note, no lipstick on the glass, no lingering perfume in the sheets—just a void that feels like relief.
Good.
I don’t even remember her name. Don’t care to. The only thing I care about is that she’s not here, trying to make a claim she was never invited to stake. That’s always the risk with girls who think the fuck was worth more than it was.
I never promise them anything—never even look them in the eyes long enough for them to imagine something permanent—but somehow they still linger, hoping they’ll be the one to change the game.
None of them have.
Except her.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up, rubbing my hands over my face. I didn’t sleep—not really. Spent the night tossing and turning with Phoenix in my head like she owned it.
That little chain dress burned itself into my brain, every link of it flashing like a fucking neon sign over skin I can’t stop wanting. Her nipples—soft, tight, barely veiled—have eclipsed every memory I’ve ever had of other women.
And it pisses me the fuck off.
I grab a vitamin tincture from the drawer and down it with the half-empty bottle of water on my nightstand.
The hangover's dull but manageable. It's not the headache or the dehydration that’s making me mean—it’s the fact that I’m hard as fucking stone and haven’t been able to come without thinking of her in weeks.
I tug on sweatpants and shove my feet into slippers, already scowling by the time I leave my room. The penthouse is too quiet. Morning light filters through the windows like it’s trying too hard to soften what this place really is.
When I reach the shared kitchen, I spot her.
Phoenix. Sitting at the coffee table like she owns the fucking morning.
Her legs are tucked beneath her, her ratty T-shirt slipping off one shoulder, hair piled on top of her head in a lazy knot.
There’s a mug in her hands, steam rising into her face like a shield, and for a second, just one, she looks like peace.
It guts me.
I can’t be calm—not when she’s the reason I’m unraveling. Not when my cock is aching, and my pride is shot, and my temper is as brittle as glass.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I bark.
She doesn’t even look up. “Enjoying my morning coffee before the rest of you wake up.”
The casual tone hits harder than a slap.
My fists clench. Who does she think she is, walking around this place with that body, acting like she hasn’t been pushing every single one of us to the edge? She’s been playing with fire and pretending she doesn’t smell the smoke.
I stalk toward her and grab her arm. “Get up.”
“What are you doing?” she snaps, trying to pull free. But I don’t let go.
“I’m done playing games with you, princess.”
I drag her into her room and kick the door closed behind us, flipping the lock with a click that feels like sealing a fate. She’s breathing fast now, chest rising and falling in sharp jerks. Her eyes go wide, but not with fear—no, that spark is anger. Good. Let her be angry. Let her burn.
“I tried it the nice way,” I growl, backing her against the wall. “I let Maverick charm you. I let Atticus play his mind games. Storm even tried. But you still won’t give us answers.”
She doesn’t respond.
I reach out and wrap my hand gently—but firmly—around her throat, pressing her against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her I’m in control .
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Her hands come up, fingers curling around my wrist. Her voice is low, defiant. “Your dad hired me.”
“Don’t bullshit me. That’s not why you said yes to this job. Why are you really here?”
“I needed the money.” Her voice sharpens. “Not all of us were born with a trust fund and a god complex.”
I smirk. There she is.
That fire—the same one I saw when she first marched into our world with nothing but a lie and a spine of steel. She’s terrified and furious and so fucking alive it hurts to look at her.
“You’ve been taking notes,” I say. “Tracking staff who quit. What the hell do you think you’re going to find?”
Her chin lifts. “That’s none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business. You belong to me now.”
Her eyes flash. “I don’t belong to anyone. ”
“Read the fine print, princess. You signed the contract.”
I let my hand drop from her throat and trail lower, slow and deliberate, just to prove a point—not to hurt, not to humiliate, but to reclaim the power she keeps slipping through my fingers.
Her skin is hot beneath my touch, flushed and alive, and I feel her breath hitch even as she glares at me. That glare is fire. It dares me to keep going. Dares me to stop.
“You think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing?” I murmur, voice like gravel as my fingers skim the curve of her ribcage, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt. “The way you walk. The way you look at us. You want this, even if you can’t admit it.”
She jerks her face away, but I see the flush creeping up her neck. I feel the tension coil through her stomach, the war she’s fighting against herself. She doesn’t deny it. She just holds her breath.
“Tell me what you’re looking for,” I press again, my palm flattening against her bare waist, thumb stroking low and slow against soft skin .
“No.”
I yank my hand back and grab the neck of her shirt, tearing it clean down the middle. The cotton rips like paper. She gasps—not in fear, but in fury and something dangerously close to arousal.
“That was mine,” she hisses, her hands balling into fists at her sides.
“Not part of your uniform. Not in my house.”
Her breathing quickens. She’s furious, vibrating with it. But under the rage, her chest rises and falls faster, her nipples taut and flushed in the open air. She doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t hide. She’s challenging me—just like always.
I let my gaze trail over her body, watching how her skin reacts to the air, to me. Then I step closer, crowding her space, my hand trailing down the center of her sternum until it rests just above the waistband of her shorts.
Her breath stutters.
“You’ve been driving every single one of us mad,” I whisper, dragging my thumb across her lower lip. It trembles beneath the pressure, but she doesn’t open her mouth. Doesn’t pull away. “Don’t pretend this is one-sided.”
“I’m not pretending anything,” she bites out. “I’ve followed every rule. I’ve worn what you told me to wear. Done what you’ve asked. And still it’s not enough.”
“It’s not about rules. It’s about truth.”
My fingers slip beneath the waistband, not far—just enough to feel the heat of her skin, the fine tremble running through her. Her hands stay at her sides. Rigid. Waiting. But she doesn’t stop me.
She looks at me then—really looks. And the rage softens into something else.
“I’m not the threat you think I am.”
That lands like a punch. Because part of me knows she’s telling the truth. But the rest of me—the part ruled by lust and control and this gnawing need to break her open and see what’s inside—doesn’t give a shit.
“I think you’re the most dangerous thing to ever step foot on our boat,” I say. My fingers dip lower, brushing the edge of soft lace, and I feel the proof of her arousal—hot, unmistakable. “Because every time you look at me like that, I forget who the fuck I am.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, pulsing with everything unsaid.
Then, I kiss her.
Not to shut her up. Not to win.
I kiss her because I can’t not. Because the hunger has eaten me alive and the fire she’s lit inside me refuses to die. Her mouth is soft but fierce beneath mine, her hands shoving at my chest even as her lips part. It’s chaos. It’s need. It’s the beginning of the end.
Because in that moment, I know:
I’ve already lost the fucking bet.
And I don’t care.
Immediately, her body melts into mine.
Her lips part, hungry, and I swallow her breath as she kisses me back with a desperation that guts me.
She tastes like coffee and cherries and the kind of danger I should know better than to crave.
My hands drag down the length of her spine, gripping her ass to pull her flush.
I can feel the heat of her through those thin little shorts.
She's soft and furious and completely mine in this moment.
I break the kiss to bury my mouth against her throat, inhaling the sharp scent of soap and skin and sex.
Her pulse races against my tongue. She's panting already, clawing at my shoulders like she doesn’t know whether she wants to fight me or fuck me.
I slip my hand beneath the waistband of her shorts and find her slick and soaking.
“Fuck,” I rasp, voice shredded with need. “You’re soaked for me, little liar.”
I push two fingers inside her, no warning, and she cries out—not in pain, but in some kind of desperate release. Her head falls back against the wall, mouth open.
I should punish her. She deserves it. For spying. For lying. For the shit she said to me back in her room. For every time she’s looked at one of us like she might be the one in control.
I curl my fingers inside her and press my palm tight to her clit, watching her unravel .
“You should be walking around this fucking penthouse naked,” I growl into her ear, curling my free hand around the back of her neck. “Wet. Wanting. Needing it so bad you can’t think.”
Her thighs twitch. Her breath catches.
“Or maybe I fuck you right now,” I murmur, dragging my lips over her jaw. “Make you walk around with my cum dripping down your thighs so every one of them knows who owns you.”
“Beg me,” I say, my voice a razor.
“No.”
I twist my fingers deeper, hitting that spot that makes her hips jerk. Her hands slam against my chest, gripping my shirt like she’s drowning.
“Beg me,” I repeat, knowing damn well I won’t last much longer. I need to be inside her. I need to break her. I need her to say it.
But she lifts her chin and glares.
“Fuck me, or don’t. I won’t beg. You want that, go hire one of your whores. You’re good at that, right? Solving everything with a stack of daddy’s money? ”
I freeze. Anger ignites low and fast.
“You don’t know shit about me.”
“I know you didn’t earn me. You bought me. You think I’m yours because your daddy paid for the contract, but that only covers my body. Not my soul. If you want me to beg, Con, then fucking earn it.”
That’s it.
I rip my hand from her shorts and drag them down her legs. My fingers, coated in her slick, smear across her lips just before I kiss her again—brutal and claiming, taking everything she won’t give.
She gasps into my mouth, and I shove my jeans down with one hand, freeing myself. The second I push inside her, she cries out, and it’s the sweetest fucking sound I’ve ever heard. I hold still, deep inside her, my hand flat against her throat. Not choking. Just a reminder.
A warning.
Her eyes flutter, and she leans her head back against the wall. Then she moves—slow at first, then more desperate. She wraps her legs around my waist and starts to ride me, using me, grinding down with every roll of her hips.
Jesus.
She’s fucking me.
I let her. I let her take what she wants. Let her fuck me like she means to own me. And then, just as she starts to tremble, I grip her hips and pull out.
“No,” she gasps.
I twist her around and shove her face-down onto the bed. She lifts her hips, offering herself like the little defiant brat she is.
“You want me to earn it?” I hiss.
Then I’ll fucking earn it.
I slam back into her, burying myself to the hilt, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the mattress. She takes it. Every brutal thrust. Her fingers twist in the sheets, her breath ragged and begging without words.
She moans—high and breathy—as I fuck her harder, deeper. I don’t hold back. I can’t. I’m too close, too far gone. My control’s been hanging by a thread since the second she opened that goddamn door.
Her thighs start to shake, the way her body tightens around me making it harder and harder to hold back.
I lean over, press my lips to her ear.
“Come for me, Phoenix. Now.”
I press my thumb to her ass and that’s all it takes. She shatters around me, soaking me as she screams into the mattress.
I follow her over the edge with a growl, burying myself as deep as I can go, spilling inside her until there’s nothing left.
For a long moment, I don’t move.
We’re both panting, her body limp under mine, my hand still braced above her so I don’t crush her completely.
When I finally pull back, reality slams into me.
I lost.
I didn’t just fuck her. I gave in. I surrendered to the need she’s had me drowning in for weeks .
She made me break first, and I don’t even care.
But I should. Fuck, I should .
Because this—her—is dangerous. Not just to the game. To everything.
And if I’m not careful, she’ll ruin me in ways no one else ever could.