Page 65 of Vicious Butterfly
“None of your goddamn fucking business, asshole.”
Tate snarls, yanking on my tie. His eyes darken and glitter with all the danger of a feral wolf. But he can be as scary as he wants to, I’m not saying shit.
“Fine,” he says, getting the message. “But your father’s on my list now, Ryan. It’s a list no one wants to be on.”
I shiver, the cold wind of Tate’s malice funneling through me.
“Ididwork my ass off to get my father to let Griffon go to Shadowridge. He said no.” Which is putting it mildly, but there’s no way I’m launching into that story now or ever.
Tate smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. It speaks of all the deviousness he’s planning. “If I find out he hurt you, Ryan, I’m going to make sure he regrets being born. I won’t kill him, that would be too easy. Everything will hurt forever, even his fucking eyelids, till he wants to die, but he’ll only get to die when I find ashred of mercy for him. But I don’t have any mercy for those who hurt you, so he’s shit out of luck.”
My heart’s hammering, hot fury and fear warring with each other. Tate’s beautiful, frustrating, and terrifying. Would I want revenge on my father? Sometimes I want him to hurt for what he does to Griffon. Is it fucked up that I don’t want the same retribution for what he does to me?
Probably.
No, definitely.
I believe Tate means what he says, but it’s hard to imagine it actually happening. My father’s untouchable.
Either way, Tate needs to be steered away from this topic. “Are you going to retract your offer?”
“Never. Even before you told me about your father—who’s about to go fucking missing—I was willing to protect you even though I wouldn’t have known what I was protecting you from.”
“Now what?”
“Now, we pray McKinnon and his yahoo friends pull through in fundraising.”
“I’ve heard enough about fucking McKinnon for a lifetime.”
“Oh? Jealous, baby?” He inhales me, still too close, but still not moving that last inch that would bring our lips together. He wants me to come that last inch. I shouldn’t. He’s a cocky weasel, and doesn’t deserve it.
But now I’m irrationally thinking of him and McKinnon, even though I’m pretty sure McKinnon’s shacking up with his brother.
Fuck it.
I surge forward, crashing my lips to his, violence, heat, and fury colliding. Tate lets go of my tie, pushing my suit jacket off, pulling me closer to him, if it’s even possible. We’re already molded against each other, as if it was painful to be apart. As if he needs me.
And I crave another kind of need. Needing to get back at him. Retribution for all he’s done to me and everything he plans on doing. But buried under all my hatred for what he is lurks something terrifying.
Comfort.
Even knowing what he is and how he wants to keep me, my heart says Tate is home. Safety. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. The only explanation is that I’ve finally lost my mind.
I break the kiss to snarl. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re obsessed with me,” Tate breathes. “I caught you swooning at me during the meeting.”
“I was not.” But that’s all the protest I give. I was swooning.
Tate spins us. My back cracks against the shelves, books jolting—one knocks loose, pages fluttering, landing with a heavy thud.
“Turn around,” he growls.
“Make me.” I’m already braced against the bookshelf, between his two mammoth arms. I don’t know how heavy my words are going to land, but I’m not begging him this time.
He rucks up my shirt roughly, yanking it out of my pants, and then he tugs me by my waistband, another spin, and a shove face-first toward the goddamn books. My palms stop me from a face plant. Tate grinds close, his monster cock pressing my ass through his pants.
“This what you wanted?” He pops the button on my pants, zipper down, exposing my ass to the cool air. His hot hands slide down, cupping each globe. “Me using you? My cock in your ass?”
