Chapter 2
Connor Pen
Frustration squeezes a vice around my balls as fury pounds through my veins. I stare at the closed door and exhale long and slow, but even with my lungs empty and my vision swimming, the possessive rage pounding from my toes to the top of my skull refuses to relent.
Hilary taunted me with her perfect goddess-like physique and warrior spirit.
The feral beast trapped within me demands I kick down the door and pin her underneath me until she screams my name in ecstasy.
Pleasure her until she begs for mercy. Worship her until nothing exists beyond my mastery of her body.
A second door closes. The bathroom. My frustration doubles as I realize she put more distance between us.
I grit my teeth until pain lances through my skull then inhale until my ribs ache, but when several seconds pass and my fury still does not fade, I turn and stomp down the hall away from temptation.
The moment I step into the foyer, the shower turns on. My soles stick to the floor as dirty images fill my mind.
I groan as visions of hot, soapy water and soft, smooth skin play through my mind.
With an angry pivot, I stalk into the secondary bedroom and lock myself in the bathroom. Like a total creep, I lean my forearm against the wall adjoining the master bath and work my cock out of my trousers.
To the tune of pattering water as the goddess of my dreams cleanses her perfect body a few feet away, I stroke myself from base to tip and back.
The punishing movements, especially dry, send streaks of delicious agony into my balls and up my spine.
The pain radiates outward, infecting every organ and sensitizing my nerves.
Pressure builds between my legs. I curl my toes in my ridiculously expensive shoes and tighten my fist.
A soft, feminine gasp breaks through the sound of running water.
My control snaps. Magma erupts from my balls, rockets down my shaft, and spurts from my tip. I curse and shuffle backward, barely avoiding dirtying my pants and shoes as my cum splashes off the wall and splats onto the floor.
Despite the soundproofing between us, Hilary’s sigh burrows deeper into my ears and blasts through my skull.
The mix of satisfaction, annoyance, frustration, and disgust in the single exhale shouldn’t affect me in so many ways, but even as a second orgasm rips through me, so does shame, worry, and fresh fury.
She’s tortured me for eight years.
Eight fucking years.
For eight years I’ve kept her within arms reach and used her natural tenacity to mold her into the vicious, stubborn woman I need by my side, but until today, she kept herself untouchable.
The clear boundaries she set taunted me every second of every day. Knowing bliss was right there but wholly unavailable was pure hell on earth.
I found rapture between her thighs and heaven in her eyes during what unfortunately became a one-night stand, then I spent eight years pining after her like a teenage schoolboy. With every day she remains by my side, my control frays a little more.
She is my one weakness. The only thing I want more than revenge.
She’s mine.
Hilary Winthrop, the girl who stole the last few slivers of my decimated heart many, many years ago and the woman who became my one and only lover, is now a carefully curated weapon by my side.
She could destroy me and everything I’ve worked so hard to build, but without her, I’m nothing.
She turns off the shower. I end my ruminations with a growl, wipe myself off with a damp washcloth, and give the wall and floor a quick clean before checking my reflection and exiting the bathroom.
Deciding I need to see her expression when she emerges from the master bedroom and wonders if I heard her pleasuring herself but not trusting myself to keep my hands off her if we’re locked in a hotel room alone, I prop open the front door and settle in the plush chair angled beside the couch in the living room with a full view down the hall to the master suite.
When a hard thump reverberates through the wall, I jump to my feet and take an alarmed step forward before catching myself. I curse my wayward body, fix my suit lapels, and force myself back into the chair with measured control.
After ensuring no one was in the hall to witness my failure, I adjust my cufflinks and regulate my breathing until my heart no longer threatens to jump out of my throat.
Hilary Winthrop is a strong, resilient woman. She’s proven throughout the years she does not need my help, and I’ve enforced her skills and capabilities as much as my role as her boss allows, but still my drive to protect and cherish her fights for dominance.
The thought of her hurt curdles my insides, but since I exited the master suite not long ago, I know she’s in there alone, so she isn’t in any true danger. My overreaction stemmed purely from my own emotions and is a heinous slip from my discipline and control.
It cannot happen again.
With my physical armor—my suit and jewelry—in place, I pull my mental defenses around me and don my cutthroat, cruel business persona.
The bedroom door opens. Hilary steps out in a dark green strapless gown.
Molded to her curves with a slit halfway up her thigh, the dress instantly undoes my efforts of the last few minutes.
My cock hardens in a painful rush. Despite the sinful cut of the gown, the color of the fabric and her flat, strappy sandals with ribbons crisscrossing up her long legs—as well as her understated hair and makeup—prevent the outfit from being overtly sexual.
She’s a wet dream in the flesh.
Even as she freezes like prey caught in a trap, lust pulses through my veins and saliva floods my mouth. I swallow. Her long lashes frame wide, startled dark chocolate eyes.
She blinks and gathers her composure with impressive speed.
I quirk a brow. A blush creeps up her chest and darkens her olive complexion.
“Mr. Pen, is there something I can help you with?”
Her polite inquiry grates down my spine even as my mind supplies all the filthy ways she could help me with the situation trapped in my trousers, but I lean my elbow on the armrest and prop my chin on my knuckles.
Unable to fully erase the hunger gnawing at my insides from my gaze, I trail cold, calculating eyes from the top of her head to the tips of her painted toenails before meeting her glare.
“Turn around,” I demand.
Her bare shoulders stiffen, and she tightens her grip on her clutch. The leather squeaks in complaint. I marvel at how stunning she is when her eyes darken in fury, but I scowl in disappointment at the show of defiance.
In tonight’s circle of high society, such indignation can not only end your career, but also your life. Offend the wrong person and no one will investigate your death.
I should know. My mother’s murder was swept under the rug as though she never existed.
Hilary thins her lips, and even though she lifts her foot to begin a slow turn, I rise and stalk toward her.
In true warrior fashion, she squares her shoulders with mine and holds her ground as I approach. I stop with the pointed tips of my dress shoes a foot away from her toes.
I reach for her shoulder. She lifts a hand to block me, but I pause and focus my attention on her gaze, daring her to stop me.
After a deep breath, she drops her arm to her side and relaxes her shoulders into a practiced poise.
I push her hair behind her shoulder, remove the hair clip from above her ear, and slip it into the thick tresses near the back of her head, creating a half updo effect and exposing her long, elegant neck on the opposite side of her body as the slit in her dress.
Her tantalizing raspberry and vanilla perfume fills my senses, and I resist the urge to run my hands over her throat and shoulders by sheer force of will.
I may be an asshole, but I’m not an asshole without purpose. No matter how much I want to ravage her right here, right now, I will not take her by force. Sure, we both enjoy a bite of pain with our pleasure, but no means no.
I’ve seen how easy a man can break a woman. The last thing I want is to see this gorgeous goddess torn apart.
I step back and cross my arms over my chest.
“Turn around,” I instruct again.
She hides her annoyance well, but my obsession with her means I’ve studied her every reaction for the last eight years, so I notice and scowl at the flash of emotions in her eyes and the slight flexing of her jaw.
My disapproval only increases her fury, but she loosens her fists and gives a slow turn.
Fucking hell, her ass is too perfect. The dress fits her too well.
Her natural grace and lithe movements are too alluring.
I long to grab her by the hair, bend her over, and fuck the obstinance right out of her, but even in my fantasy, she refuses to relent.
She’s too stubborn to submit to anyone’s whims except her own.
Which makes her even more perfect.
She completes her slow spin and meets my stare with an impressively neutral expression. I test her resolution and tilt her head back with a knuckle under her chin. Her nostrils flare, but she hides her indignation behind soft, vulnerable eyes and plump, kissable lips.
“You’re perfect, Ms. Winthrop,” I murmur.
Surprise widens her lashes before fury burns in her eyes. So dark they appear more black than brown, her onyx irises pull me into their depths even as she responds with cool indifference.
“Thank you, Mr. Pen. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I enjoy the slight catch of her breath as I smirk.
“There is.”
She quirks a brow. I take her wrist, tug her toward me as I pivot, and thread her arm through mine so her hand rests in the crook of my elbow.
“This is where you belong for the rest of the night,” I demand.
Before she can pull away, I pin her arm to my side and press my hand over hers on my forearm.
“I think after your,” I glance down at her breasts, “accident, it’s best you stay by my side. Don’t you agree, Ms. Winthrop?” I challenge.
In a brilliant display of impertinent compliance, she responds in the most saccharine voice I’ve ever heard.
“Of course, Mr. Pen.”
I pour extra satisfaction into my smirk even though I hate dragging Hilary into the pit of vipers. She doesn’t resist when I start forward, nor does she balk when I shorten my stride and slow my pace.
When I turn the corner, she eyes the open door but guards her reaction, so I lead her through the foyer and close the door behind us.
Halfway down the hall, I ask the question she used to taunt me less than half an hour ago.
“Who was the red wine for?”
Her fingers tighten on my sleeve before she relaxes her grip.
“Eric Beaumonte,” she responds.
I add a note next to his name on my mental list. The man will pray for death by the time I’m done with him.
“And who was the champagne for?” I continue.
Her wary side-eye proves she knows me well. I will not relent until she gives me the information I seek.
I tug her closer in warning when she doesn’t respond fast enough. Her breast and hip brush against me.
She opens her mouth to answer, but a trio of women, all dressed to impress, turns the corner and walk toward us.
Without a single outward indication, Hilary shrinks away.
Her aura dampens as she pulls her emotions behind her defenses and offers the ladies a polite smile.
I paste my features into a neutral expression and nod by way of greeting until the two women in the back give Hilary judgmental once-overs.
Their eyes widen in fear at my scowl, and they push their clueless friend past us without a word.
Before I can repeat my question, two attendants with a drunk patron staggering between them exit the ballroom. The man, Alfred Hundley, a socialite riding on the coattails of his parents, bends in half. They usher him into the corner just in time for him to vomit all over his shoes.
I lead Hilary through the double doors without another word. We step into the glittering ballroom as though we belong.
Because I do. This wealth and power should have all been mine by birth, but fate favors the cruel and tramples the weak. Revenge demands I slither my way into elite society by any means necessary, even if it means dragging Hilary in with me.
When her alertness rises to match mine, I don the persona countless businessmen fear. I leave most of the small talk to Hilary—her natural grace ensures men flock to her, much to my frustration and annoyance—but I leave my mark in the conversations where appropriate.
My senses sharpen impossibly further as I spot a familiar face in the crowd. I regulate my breathing as adrenaline floods my veins.
Like a demon wearing a human suit, Alex Koch, the man who stole my mother’s innocence only to cast her aside like garbage, stands with perfectly styled hair, radiant skin, and a beaming, perfect smile. He hasn’t aged a day in the twenty-four years since I last saw him.
Money will do that for a hideous creature.
An eerie calm creeps through me as evil incarnate slides her arm through his.
Jocelyn Koch, his lawfully wedded wife and the monster who murdered my mother, smiles with the practiced peace only a power-hungry fake bitch can portray.
They offer Hilary and I polite, inquisitive smiles. Not an ounce of recognition gleams in their eyes.
Maniacal glee sweeps through me.
Of course they don’t know who I am. I’m no longer the terrified, scrawny eight-year-old boy they tried to silence so long ago.
I began my quest for vengeance twenty-four years ago, but today is the day the true games begin.
Today is the day they meet the business tycoon who will rip all their successes out from under them. Today is the day they greet the man who’ll orchestrate their downfall. Today is the day they welcome a snake born of vengeance into their inner circle.
Today is the day they meet me.
Connor Pen.
Hilary stiffens as she senses the predatory shift within me. A sliver of guilt wedges between my ribs. She’s walked straight into danger without even knowing it, but I need to keep her close.
I will ruin the Koch family one deceitful step at a time, with Hilary by my side.
No matter what it takes.