Page 18 of Crush
“You have it worse than most. The Weatherby name comes with sacrifices of its own.”
“Even though I haven’t been a Weatherby for eighteen years?”
“Perhaps because of that. You have my father’s interest.”
“Do I have yours?”
His posture goes rigid. Thorne’s heart rate picks up. I turn my face toward his chest, shocked by the power of my question.
Then I’m left with nothing.
Icy air blows into my face. I blink, unaccustomed to how fast Thorne moves and how quickly he vacated his spot—and me.
“Here’s my advice to you, little pretty.” Thorne stands above me, shedding his blanket and tossing it onto my legs. As he dresses, he continues, “Don’t die. I’m not always going to be around to save you.”
“I never asked for you to—”
“Wrap yourself up tight because I’m not carrying you up the cliffs and into my ride. You’re doing that all by yourself like a big girl.”
I stand, hitching the blankets around me and collecting as much pride as I can while smelling like fish and moth-bitten fabric. “Gladly.” You fucking asshole.
He seems to hear my thoughts and nails me with a scathing glare. “Keep up.”
With that, he turns, snuffing out the torches on his way and leaving me in total darkness. Barefoot, I scamper to keep up with him, cursing his lineage and any unlucky future heirs of his the entire way.
* * *
After Thorne unceremoniously drops me off in front of Weatherby Manor, I sneak through the front door. It opens without protest, and I send a silent thanks to Dash for oiling the hinges recently.
I creep across the foyer, careful not to draw Malcolm’s attention from his office behind the curving staircase, and pad up to the second floor with the itchy blankets still knotted around my chest.
When I reach my bedroom, I make sure to lock the door before scampering into the bathroom and diving under the luxurious spray. The filth I acquired while trekking up the side of the cliff with Thorne swirls down the drain. I make a mental note to toss the cheap blankets in the trash as soon as I can, thereby removing any lasting memories of tonight—and him.
Thorne changes from hot to cold like the very spray I’m under. He saves me, then enjoys watching me suffer. Calms me, then lectures on how stupid I act. Holds me, then stands and spits on me before marching off like the asshole he is.
I want my revenge more than ever now. I nearly died, and all I can think of is how I can kill him slowly.
I’m scrubbing at my stomach, the loofah scraping across raw skin. I don’t relent. Instead, I scrub harder, craving the pain of reality instead of the humiliation Thorne inflicts in my head.
My core aches the longer I scour. I slide the loofah across my breasts, chafing my nipples, and that ache turns into a pulse.
The loofah drops to my feet.
Turning into the shower’s spray, I tilt my head until the water splashes across my face, relentless. My fingers find my clit, and while I rub and moan softly, I think of Thorne.
His face, snarling close to mine. His body, hard and sharp against my softness, but hot. So hot. Then the remembrance of the ocean clogging my airways comes forth. Thorne splashing toward me in the sea, his forearm coming around my throat in support.
In dominance.
My free hand comes to my throat, jutting my chin up higher in the shower, and I squeeze.
Choking, I rub my clit harder. See Thorne’s face clearer—his body, naked and standing strong on the firelit beach, his skin as pale as the moon where his sculpted muscles didn’t eclipse the light.
I remember his dick, half-hard and long. I recall the time when it hit the back of my throat and I lost all oxygen to him.
Sparks build at my center, spreading like wildfire. My knees go weak, and I buckle under the spray, but I won’t let go of my throat. I refuse to stop the avalanche of electricity until I’ve gone all the way.
It comes. My cries are strangled by the shower and my hand, but the water can’t stop the spiraling orgasm from taking me down.