Page 97 of Hate You More

“God.” She rolls in her bottom lip, then bites it a little. She looks conflicted. Turned on and not trying to show it. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so hard. “You’re into that?”

“I’m into you, Clara.” I slide my lips down her neck. “I love you so fucking much.”

“Nothing says love like butt talk,” she whispers.

“You love it,” I rasp.

“No, I love you. Oh, Lord, you feel so hard, and your kisses make my legs feel like JELL-O.” She brings my hand to her breast, arching into my hold.

This woman is so goddamn perfect. I’m not sure I’ll ever be enough.

Desire burns in my veins as I hook my finger into her neckline, exposing her nipple to the night air. As I skate my thumb across the tight pebbling, her breath hitches.

“You’re so delicious.” I suck the bud into my mouth. A swirl of tongue, a tight pull, and she melts against me. “So fucking delicious.”

“Less talk,” she whimpers.

“You love my talk. Especially when I tell you how I’m gonna get you off.”

“Oh, God.”

“I’m gonna make a meal of you.” I begin to gather her skirts. “Make you come so hard that the stars will think you’re a supernova and be jealous of how you shine.”

“Clara. Clara!” calls a woman’s voice from a distance.

“Dammit.” Her body stiffens. “It’s Vanessa.”

“Fuck her.”

“Shush!” Clara snickers but wiggles away, leaving my tongue flicking the night air. She takes my hands and pulls me into the shadows of a tall hedge.

“Clara, I know you’re down here.” The prim voice sounds closer now. “And I know who you’re with.” Fuck. “I’m giving you two minutes to comport yourself and get back to the party before . . . before I tell your father.”

“Bitch,” Clara hisses as the clacking of high heels draws away.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” I say, pulling her into my arms to press my lips to her forehead. Her arms come around me, and I sigh. “But it was fun while it lasted.”

“God, I can’t wait until we’re back at school.”

Amen to that.

Chapter 27

Clara

The music flows, lights twinkle, and the party is already in full swing as we arrive.

The ballroom is like a mini Versailles, the walls gilded mirrors. White linens and chandeliers, waiters in black, one hand behind their backs. Glassware chimes over the quiet hum of conversations. If you care to listen closely enough, I’m sure you’ll hear power being brokered by men in black suits as the women on their arms drip in pearls and diamonds.

Everyone here tonight is cut from the same cloth. Birds of a feather, flocking together to benefit whatever the cause du jour is. The sad reality is few are here to benefit their fellow man. This is just a chance to see and be seen. To say I’m here. I’m one of the chosen few.

Privilege. Wealth. Entitlement. And I feel out of step.

I’ve been to enough of these things while working for my dad that you’d think I’d feel at home. I do not. And I have a feeling this knot in my stomach won’t settle until I’m done and gone. How strange that I’m more at ease in a bar with blue-collar workers these days. Dressed to the nines with Troy’s hand resting at the small of my back, I feel . . . unsteady. Or maybe that’s because when the pressure shifts and his thumb skims lightly across my skin, my equilibrium teeters.

I wonder if he knows what he’s doing to me.

“Shall we get a drink?”