Page 32 of Claiming His Throne
“I lost my mom when I was sixteen. She experienced a type of regression, memory loss. She doesn’t know who I am. She asks for me every day but she’s looking for a child. Not me. It’s why I stay away.”
He doesn’t say anything else. What he does is much worse. Leaning forward, he presses his lips to my forehead. Soft, tender, caring. Damn him.
“I like the other side of you better,” I mumble.
“What side of me?”
“The side where you like inflicting pain, not this caring, soft side.”
“There is nothing soft about me, Molly,” he grunts.
I smile. He totally has a tender side. I’ve seen it more than once. “Don’t worry… I won’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to tarnish your reputation.”
Alfie’s smile widens. “No one would believe you.”
The car comes to a stop on the tarmac. I step out and stare up at the jet. “You know these things are the reason our world is more polluted than it has to be.”
“Jets?”
“Private jets.”
“Is that why you fly commercial?” Alfie asks.
“Not all of us can afford private jets. We’re not all trust-fund babies, Alfie.” I shrug.
He laughs and clasps my hand. “Sure, Little Miss Billionaire at twenty-five.”
Alfie lets go of my hand when we reach the stairs, moving it to my lower back and guiding me to go before him.
I turn my head, peek over my shoulder, and catch him looking at my ass. “You just wanted to look at my ass, didn’t you?”
“Anyone in their right mind wants to look at this ass, Molly. It’s fucking perfection,” he says without bothering to look me in the face.
Stepping into the jet, I pause. Hudson is standing in the middle of the aisle.
“Hi.” He gives me that devilish smile of his. One that tells me he likes to cause mayhem and mischief.
“Um, hi,” I greet him.
Alfie’s hand presses harder into my back. “Hudson, move out of the fucking way,” he growls.
“Well, gee, thanks for getting up at the ass crack of dawn and bringing me clothes, little brother,” Hudson replies with a laugh while stepping to the side.
“Here.” Alfie guides me to the back of the plane, where a set of four lounge-type recliner chairs sit facing each other.
“Good morning, Mr. Giuliani. What can I get you to drink?” a male steward asks.
“I’ll have a coffee, black, please. And she’ll have a cappuccino: oat milk, one sugar,” he says.
“I’d love a mimosa,” Hudson adds, dropping into the seat across from me.
“How do you know how I like my coffee?” I glare at Alfie.
“I make it a point to know everything about my opponents, Molly,” he says as he sits next to me.
“We’re still running with the rival thing, then?” Hudson asks.
“We’re certainly not friends,” I tell him. “I am sorry for lying to you, though, that day I met you.”
