Graham
L ucinda Devereux. I’m familiar with her old-money family. The entire family is the embodiment of over-privileged, but I’ve learned over the years that wealth and social status have nothing to do with a person’s character. Whether they’re flat broke or have more money than God, the attitude—the belief they are owed respect and every opinion they have is the only opinion—is just ingrained in some people. But for some, a little money or power goes to their head quickly.
I have no room to judge. I’m an arrogant bastard on a good day and a narcissistic asshole with psychopathic tendencies on a bad one. The power and influence I’ve gained for myself over the years makes me unbearable for many people.
Lucinda is why people believe the cliché about wealthy women. Krista proves it doesn’t matter what you have. Some are just a bitch. And I am just an asshole.
An asshole who had to remind myself I could not rip the woman’s vocal cords out for speaking to Casey like she was a piece of trash.
When she stomps away, all the anger drains because Casey’s fuming face is adorable.
Fearlessness and determination glint, winding and wrapping around us, making me grin. She feels this with me. The timidity falls away when she stands toe-to-toe with me. And I fucking love it because I know how strong she is. It’s a quiet strength that gets often overshadowed by the damage her mother has inflicted on her over the years. She gets lost in the degradation and the humiliation, believing the lies that have been carved into her mind. But her resilience and courage are stronger than she realizes. That it comes to the surface with me… well, it is a massive ego boost. Even if it’s because she’s angry with me.
“, you had no right to say that? You can’t say that.”
“Say what?”
“That I’m…” her voice drops to a whisper as her eyes dart around. “That I’m your girl. It will give people the wrong idea.”
“No. It’s the right idea. I thought I made that clear the other day.”
She shakes her head and pulls away from me. She spins, that fluttery skirt thing she wears whipping around her long legs. My cock swells, watching her ass sway as she walks across the wide room to her bag sitting on the floor. I follow close behind, panting like a damn dog.
When she stands, I’m right there, pulling her against my chest. “You are mine, Casey. And everyone needs to know because when you fuck with my shit, I will make you pay.”
She shivers against me, then gasps when my dick twitches against her ass. She spins around, looks down, then back at me with wide eyes before pressing her hands against my chest. I allow her to push me away, but I don’t allow much space. “I am not yours, . I can’t be. You know that.”
“I don’t know that because last I checked, I’m a grown fucking man, and you,” I reach up, cupping her jaw, running my thumb over her sharp cheekbone, “are a grown woman. You’re not sixteen anymore, Sunflower.”
Her inhale is sharp and stuttered. For a flash, lust flares, but it’s gone just as fast, replaced with resignation. “No, , I’m not, but I am still your sister.”
My hand props on the glass behind her as I lean in, forcing her back once more. “ Step ,” I growl. “We don’t share a single cell of DNA, but I plan on filling you with mine very soon.”
“Oh, my Jesus.” She squeaks, pushing my chest again. “You can’t say those kinds of things.”
“Why not when it’s true?”
“B-because it’s not. That w-won’t happen.” Her head twists rapidly like she’s pleading for even the air to notice her denial.
Sorry, Sunflower, the universe isn’t controlling this narrative. I am.
I nip her ear, earning another shiver. “It will. Very, very soon.”
“Casey,” her name is called from just outside the room. I take a step back, smirking at her flushed cheeks and nipples straining against her leotard. I bend over and grab the familiar sweatshirt from the floor next to her bag and tug it over her head, still grinning that her lips say one thing and her body says another.
“Casey, I wanted to catch you before you left.” Soft steps enter the room just as I put more distance between us, crossing my arms over my chest. She spots my reflection in the mirror, and I turn to face her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Mr.—”
“Davis,” I extend my hand before she can finish what she was about to say. Confusion flits over her face as she accepts my hand. “I’m here to pick Casey up. I’m her…”
“Nothing.” Casey cuts in before I can finish. I’m not sure how I feel about being called nothing, but I’ll go with it for now, if for no other reason than I don’t need the woman revealing that we know each other and how just yet.
“Your nothing is picking you up?” The woman’s lips press together, doing a poor job of hiding her grin, and Casey realizes her mistake.
“I mean, I obviously know him,” she mumbles.
The woman waves her off. “I know you’re about to leave, but I wanted to see how you’re doing with auditions.”
Casey’s eyes drop, her hands wringing in front of her as she starts breathing faster. Her anxiety becomes a tangible force, filling the room to suffocating levels the moment the woman asks her questions.
Casey hasn’t gone on an audition since before her accident, and it doesn’t take a genius to know Krista, once again, sucked away what little joy her daughter had with her cruel words. After her accident, she lost a year to physical therapy and recuperating. Afterward, Jagger said she struggled to find a teacher willing to take her, and the rejection further cemented the venom Krista constantly spewed.
The thought of Casey losing something she loved—something she felt in her soul—was unfathomable to me. My need to see her dance—even if I wished they wore more clothes—was as strong as her need to dance. There was no way I was letting her lose that.
So, I did my research and found Larissa Dumond. The thirty-two-year-old woman had a beautiful career for a few years until she became guardian to her sister’s children after her sister died in a car accident. No longer able to travel or work endless hours, she opened her own studio where she could pass on her knowledge and remain connected to what she loved. She cares more that her dancers reach their potential than she cares about them becoming the next prima. If all they can become is a girl who dances because it makes them happy, then she’s satisfied.
I approached her and asked her to give Casey a chance. In exchange, I purchased a larger studio that came equipped with an auditorium and stage where they could put on exhibitions and showcases and be a mostly silent partner with funding.
The woman won my respect when she said she would only audition her. If Casey showed potential, determination, and heart, then she would take her as a student.
Suffice it to say, she saw what I knew she would when Jagger convinced Casey to try one more instructor he’d heard great things about.
But between her mother and the constant rejection before and after her accident, Casey’s confidence in her abilities plummeted, so this talk of auditions surprises me even if Casey’s reaction does not.
“I-um…” She twists her fingers together as her voice trembles. I want to grab her hands and force her eyes up. More often than not, her displays of confidence are forced and for show, but I’d rather that than when she withdraws into herself. “I haven’t gone to any.”
Larissa dips, meeting Casey’s gaze with a warm smile. “I didn’t think you would have, Casey. It’s only been a few days. I’m merely curious about what you’re considering. Remember, it can be any style as long as you expand your resume.”
Larissa knows the answer as well as I do. None. She’s trying to force Casey out of her shell. Wasted potential doesn’t sit well with the woman, but she’s privy to some of Casey’s history, so she’s been lenient. When Casey shakes her head, Larissa begins dictating a list.
I lose the conversation as the wheels in my mind turn. An idea forms. One I won’t mention because it might not be possible.
I’ve already mentally scheduled a few meetings in my head and made a list of people to call when Larissa leaves the room, leaving a slumped shouldered girl who looks on the verge of tears.
I grab her, pulling her to my chest. Her head falls against my chest as she wraps her arms around me. Defeat pours down her cheeks in rivulets, and she sniffles softly.
I don’t ask what’s wrong. I already know. Comforting and encouraging words don’t come because it’s not what she needs. For the moment, she just needs someone to hold her up, so that’s what I do.
After a few minutes, I grab her bag from the floor, and with her tucked against me, I lead her out. Larissa passes me a worried look as we make our way through the building to the exit. With a subtle shake of my head, I let her know she doesn’t need to do anything.
Casey will be okay because I’ll make sure of it.
Once outside, I usher her to my car. She hesitates, staring at the flashy car with her lips pulled between her teeth. “I’ll call an Uber,” she tells me, trying to pull away.
That’s not happening, and why I am here is at the forefront of my mind. There’s no way I’m allowing her to use public transportation of any kind until I figure out what the fuck Krista meant. “Get in the car, Case.”
“, no. People might see.”
I place my hand on her neck, dipping the handful of inches I need to be eye level with her. “It’s not a request. We’ll draw far more attention if you force my hand.”
The people entering and exiting the dance studio whisper as they walk past us, and those on the sidewalk stare as they go by. It only takes her a second to decide with a curt nod as she turns toward the car.
After she’s inside, she looks at the seatbelts with confusion. I chuckle, lean in, and strap her into the harness system. “Are they afraid you’ll be ejected?”
I frown, unintentionally allowing my mind to wander back to a time she scared the living shit out of me. As much as I admired her body and beauty Friday night, loving the beautiful ink that covered her gorgeous skin, it was not lost on me what they were covering.
She sees it, too, because her head ducks and her cheeks glow. I shut the door and take a deep breath, pushing the memories aside. It doesn’t work, but when I slide into the driver’s seat, I ensure my expression is neutral because I’m sure she doesn’t want to think about her accident, either.
The first few minutes of the drive are filled with awkward silence. Swirling thoughts filled with questions and frustration swirl in the air, licking over me as I wait for her to break the quiet. It almost becomes too much, but before I can tell her to spit it out, she speaks.
“What is this, ?” Her attention stays focused out the window as her soft voice dances around me.
“I thought it was obvious. I’m driving you home. I did this enough when you were younger, I thought you knew the routine by now.”
“You know what I mean.” My girl peeks through. Still soft and timid, but the fire I know is deep within her sparks, showing her irritation with me.
Be irritated, Sunflower. Remember how strong you are.
“Why did you pick me up? Or tell Lucinda I’m your girl? Or… I don’t know. Everything. Just why? Especially when you know it can’t happen?”
“Why can’t it?” I try not to growl, but it doesn’t work. We’ve been through this twice now, and I’m not a patient person. Casey is the only person who’s ever received a modicum, but repeating myself is getting old fast. I’m trying to remember this is expected, given the last few years, but it’s difficult.
“You know why, .” She turns in her seat as much as the belts allow and looks at me. “People won’t approve. They’ll gossip. You’re a high-profile, public figure. It will be a scandal.”
“And why would I care about what people say?”
“You obviously did before because you left,” she mutters so low that I almost miss it. It seems like that move will bite me in the ass for a while. She waves her hand around, pretending what she said doesn’t matter, and continues with her speech. “Of course, you don’t care. You’re a billionaire now, and just… you. But I’m not like you. I can’t handle it. I can’t handle the way they stare at me, and then immediately start whispering. I know they’re laughing because I’m too tall and skinny. My eyes are too big, my nose too small. I know I’m not attractive, and that’s okay. But when I see them point and whisper, then laugh like I’m the inside joke… Then let’s not forget how damn weird I am. A simple conversation is awkward because I either never say a thing or I say everything in a bubbling burst of word vomit. They look at me like I’ve grown a second head when I offer my opinion.” She says it all without taking a breath.
I’m speechless. She didn’t say anything I didn’t expect because it’s almost verbatim what I’ve caught Krista saying a few times. I just fucking hate that the woman’s toxicity has polluted Casey’s mind, turning it into a war zone fighting against her.
“Even if I still had a crush on you, it wouldn’t matter because, while you might not care what people think, I cannot handle the pointed stares and whispers. Besides, I’m not risking alienating my— our— family because you don’t enjoy being told no or want to chase the forbidden or whatever has come over you lately. It’s not worth it when we both know you’ll get bored and move on because I am not your type.”
I flip the blinker and turn down the street that leads to her apartment a little too hard. My teeth grind as I try to control my irritation. “So you keep telling me, so I’m curious, Case, what exactly is my type?”
Dubious irritation slithers over her face, pulling her mouth into a thin-stretched scowl. “You know what your type is, . It’s Elise, and the million other girls just like her that you’ve been seen with forever .”
So, she was paying attention the other night. “I like you jealous,” I smirk.
“I’m not jealous, .” The tightness in her voice belies her words, but I don’t call her on it. “It’s just a fact. Need me to name more? Jessamine? Malia? Violet? All cute, petite, curvy girls with confidence and big personalities.”
She just named every girl I ever brought home when she was a kid. But her mind has twisted them all into carbon copies of the other. “Case, Malia was a six-foot tall college volleyball player and had no curves at all. Jessamine was an accounting major who hyperventilated at her own twenty-first birthday party. I don’t have a type, Casey. Not the way you’ve convinced yourself.”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times, and I hope I’ve gotten through. Then I see the rejection of my words flicker through her eyes, her mind winning the battle, and I want to ring her goddamn neck. “Well, I’m not your type, , because I’m no one’s type.”
“Casey, why don’t you see how fucking stunning you are? When women stare at you, it’s because they’re jealous. As far as men,” I drag my hand down my face, recalling every fucking man at that party, the club… even the damn dads picking up their kids at the studio staring at her with unrestrained looks of desire, “they want you but know you’re out of their league.”
She chuckles a humorless sound as she glares at me with what I can only call bitter incredulity. “You’re mistaken, and the proof is the fact that I’m twenty years old, and I’ve had one boyfriend and six dates, all of which were first dates. They never led to a second. If that isn’t telling…” My head falls against the headrest with a groan. The urge to spill my guts—to tell her I am why she’s never had a second date. I knew about all her dates and would relay messages to ensure a second never happened. It sounds improbable, I know. New York is a massive place, but it wasn’t as hard as it sounds to ensure word spread amongst the people that she’d have access to. And she self-isolates, so that worked in my favor. I feel like a dick because I played a big part in her lack of self-confidence, but before I can confess my sins, she speaks again. “But for argument’s sake, let’s say you’re right. Maybe to some people, I’m attractive, so if it’s not my looks, it’s my personality. No one wants the timid little inexperienced virgin who…” Her words trail off as her cheeks turn the brightest shade of red I’ve ever seen, and her eyes grow comically wide.
I know she’s a virgin. If I spent years making sure no one ever asked for a second date, do you think I let anyone get close enough to get in her pants? If I could’ve prevented the dates and any touching at all, I would have. Judge me all you like. I never claimed to be sane, and what little I had vanished about four years ago when she kissed me.
I pull into her building’s private parking, find a space, and stop the car. She’s already hopping out of the car when I cut the engine, so I waste no time climbing out and getting to her. I grab her wrist, bringing her back to me, then spin her so her back is to the car. The thought of spreading her out on the hood takes root in my mind. Her milky skin against the metallic black paint with that pink pussy on display while I feast on her…
Focus, douchebag.
She looks over my shoulder as if the concrete walls of the parking garage are the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen, cheeks still flushed from her declaration. I grip her chin firmly and force myself into her line of sight. When she still avoids my eyes, I give her chin a little jerk. “Eyes on me. Now.” Her snap to mine without hesitation. Always such a good girl. “You are fucking perfect. There’s not a damn thing I would change about you except your lack of self-confidence. Your only flaw, Casey, is that you don’t see what I see.” I slant my mouth over hers, swallowing her gasp. Her fingers wrap around the fabric of my jacket as she melts into the kiss, her sweet, timid tongue tangling with mine.
Then she breaks the kiss. I’m tempted to drag her mouth back to mine, but I don’t. I’ve been moving at the speed of light with her, pushing her hard and fast because I need her so badly.
What? It’s not like I haven’t been patient. I’ve been waiting fucking years.
She presses her fingers to her lips for a moment. I like that every time I kiss her, she’s left dazed. Her chest rises with a deep breath as her eyes flutter. Then she meets mine. “Th-thank you for the ride. I-um… I should go.”
I step aside as she runs past me, slipping my hands into my pockets and watching her scurry into the elevator with a grin as I lean against the car. “Right behind you, Sunflower,” I chuckle as the doors close, then look at my watch and begin the countdown. “I’m not nearly done with you for the night.”