“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice sounding thick. “You’re so soft. So fucking hot.”
I shudder against the wall as he slides a finger in deep. This is wrong. This is sick, with my father somewhere in the house. With maids who could walk in on us at any time.
“Spread,” he says.
When I don’t move, he pinches the inside of my thigh. “I said spread.”
I jump and make a small sound of pain and desire. It’s the last one that terrifies me. How is he able to make me want this? What’s wrong with me that his hands on me feel good?
Because they do, so rough and firm, fingers pushing deep inside me. He’s knowledgeable in ways I can barely contemplate, going slow when I need him to, moving fast to increase the intensity. And that’s before his thumb finds my clit.
I gasp and jerk away from the wall. “Asher.”
His eyes blaze with lust and something else. Possession. “Like that. I want you to say my name just like that, again and again. You’re mine, beautiful.”
I want to tell him no, that I won’t say his name. That I’m not his. But his fingers move faster, reaching a spot deep inside me, making me slick. His thumb is insistent on my clit, moving in a knowing circle, pushing me close. I’m gasping around my protest, unable to say a single word.
“Let go,” he says darkly, his voice pure command.
Maybe it’s all those years of being obedient or maybe it’s his hot gaze on me. I can’t hold back. Climax washes over me in a rush, stealing my breath. I can only moan low and loud into the foyer, the sound of my pleasure echoing around me.
He brings me down gently, working me softer with his hands, placing gentle kisses over my chest. It’s disconcerting, the way he’s treating me. Suddenly nice. Almost kind. Until I see his eyes.
They aren’t kind. They’re the eyes of a predator who’s enjoying the chase.
He lifts his hand to stroke the skin left exposed by my dress from my collarbone to the tops of my breasts. In my sated, sex-drowsed state, it takes me a second to realize what he’s doing. He’s not just touching me. He’s writing on me, his fingers still wet from my pussy, leaving a trail of my arousal on my skin.
MINE.
He lifts a lazy eyebrow, daring me to contradict.
I close my eyes, because I know it’s true. Because he means to humiliate me with the act. Because it’s working. This is how it will be with us—pleasure and embarrassment, intensity and shame. And I have no choice, because I’m the good daughter. I do what I’m told, even if the man in charge of me is no longer my father.
CHAPTER TWO
Japan tried to send over cherry blossoms once before 1912, but the Department of Agriculture was concerned about insects. The US burned the trees, nearly causing a diplomatic crisis.
There are Town Cars and limos. The occasional Escalade.
Once my date for a ball picked me up in a Tesla so new it was not yet for sale to the public.
These are the vehicles I’m accustomed to. Asher Cook steers me with his hand on my elbow, his touch light but unmistakable, to the foyer where the front doors hang open, letting in the sunlight. A large white truck sits in front of the marble steps. This is the man my father turned to for help.
This is the man with enough money to bail out Li Industries.
“What do you do?” I ask, growing more nervous with every passing step. Wind brushes over my skin, cooling the come on my chest, making me shiver.
“I’m surprised your father didn’t mention me,” Asher says, his lazy smile making it clear he’s not surprised at all. “We’ve been working together for years now.”
He opens the door and holds out his hand. I don’t want to accept his help, but the truck is ten thousand feet off the ground. I’m not sure I can make it inside gracefully, even with his support.
My chin rises. “In what capacity?”
“I’m the foreman. All those shiny shopping centers your daddy likes to build, like the world’s his very own Monopoly board? I’m the one who built them.”
A laborer. I can almost hear the word in Papa’s voice. Dismissive, that’s what he would be. Asher Cook wears a plain white T-shirt and jeans that look soft from wear. His boots have probably walked through a thousand worksites. “And your money?”
“My money.” The word comes out mocking. “I’m not what you call a big spender. Don’t attend the society galas and whatever the fuck. That’s what you like, isn’t it, June? The glitz and the glamour.”
It’s the only life I know, but I don’t tell him that. “Then what do you buy?”
His hand still waits for me, patient to a fault. He must know I don’t have a choice. He made me come up against the wall. I couldn’t control that, but taking his hand? Stepping into his truck? That decision will have to be mine.
