Page 7 of Heavy Equipment
“You would have let me do anything to your body. The same way you’re going to now.”
“No.”
He looks directly at me, his eyes so dark they’re almost black. “Come for me, beautiful. Let me see.”
My body is a traitor. It comes in a matter of seconds, fingers digging into skin, muscles clenching hard, a harsh cry escaping my lips. Pleasure arcs through me, so fast and hard it’s like being struck by lightning. It wrenches my body again and again, and the whole time I can’t take my eyes away from Asher’s.
When the last pulse runs through me, my hand falls away from my sex. My whole body falls against the hard door, not feeling any pain. Not feeling anything except the aftershocks.
Something seems to echo in the cab of the truck. A word. A scream?
Did I possibly sob his name as I climaxed?
God, I did. My throat is still sore from how loud I cried for him. I’m so embarrassed I could melt into a puddle on his warm leather. It’s already damp from my arousal. I wish I could pool into liquid and not have to face him, but I remain stalwartly solid, my limbs heavy but my mind fully aware.
Asher. I can only imagine the smug look on his hard face. I can only imagine it until I look over… only, he doesn’t look smug. His cheekbones are slashes against the sunlight. His eyebrows notched in pain. He looks like a man pushed to the edge of his limits, and then pushed one inch farther.
Two hours ago I was getting ready for the gala tonight. I never could have imagined ending up in this truck. Having my own arousal spread across my fingertips.
And I never could have imagined feeling concern for the man who made me this way.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, his voice gruff.
The bulge in his jeans has not gone down. The denim stretches taut. I don’t know what he looks like under there, not really. Late-night browsing on Tumblr has not prepared me for this truck.
“Li Industries has been bleeding money for six months, maybe more.”
My gaze snaps to his face, but he’s looking at the road. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, beautiful. Worse. It’s supposed to make you feel worse, knowing that your daddy could have prevented this. The deal we made for your body? That was last fucking week.”
He knew for a week? “You’re lying.”
One broad shoulder lifts. “Halfway expected you to be barricaded in your bedroom when I showed up tonight. Maybe you’d be armed. Instead you came running down the stairs wearing that.”
I look down, forced to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the designer dress. There was probably never any gala. It was something Daddy told me so I would get ready without having to confess the truth. He let me be surprised because he was too ashamed to tell me.
For the first time in this horrible night tears prick the backs of my eyes. I clench my jaw to make sure no sound comes out. I want to yell, to shout that it’s unfair, but I’m too much of a good daughter to do that. And my father knew that about me. He was counting on it.
I close my eyes against the burn. It’s a losing battle. Tears singe my cheeks.
A hand covers mine, squeezing gently. Enough that I feel comforted from a man I should know better than to trust. Everything is upside down. My father has abandoned me. Asher Cook consoles me. I don’t know which way is up anymore, but I know one thing—the night isn’t over yet.
CHAPTER THREE
Cherry blossom season lasts a month, from the time the first to the last tree blooms. Each individual tree only flowers for a week.
I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up draped over Asher Cook’s body. I push myself up, palms against his chest, unable to ignore the hard shift of muscle beneath his soft white T-shirt.
We’re not well matched, him and I. He’s wearing jeans and boots. I’m in a limited-edition Gucci evening gown and low-heeled sandals I slipped on as we walked out the front door.
He’s made from muscle on top of muscle.
I’m slender and shaking.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, determined not to appear weak. “Where are we?”
He flips the key in the ignition. “My house.”
That’s enough to snap me awake. If I would have pictured Asher Cook’s house… I’m not sure I could have. He seems like he’d be at home among concrete and steel. Maybe some bricks in the background, stacked halfway up.
He fits into construction so well that it’s strange to imagine him somewhere fully built. Maybe I would have guessed someplace cheap, like a trailer park. I didn’t think of myself as a snob, but as I look at the rambling Tudor style home with ivy curling up the side, I’m forced to confront my own preconceived notions. This man has money—and what’s more, he has taste.
