Page 67 of Crush

“You’ve barely touched the surface, little pretty. You want true asphyxiation? You have it.”

My vision goes black. I’m blinking, but I see nothing, only feel—Thorne’s thrusts against my skin, the slap of his stomach meeting the small of my back, his sounds of ecstasy and dominance as my fight goes out.

My arms go slack.

Until an explosion hits the backs of my eyelids, coloring the black into red, then pure white. Thorne releases my throat, and I gasp in air at the same time as the orgasm rockets through my center, starting at his fingers before claiming every part of me. Even my soul can’t escape the massive earthquake going on inside my body, robbing me of all ability to think.

Book spines dig into my cheek, shelving pressing painfully into my breasts. It’s uncomfortable enough to bring me back to the present. I push off the bookshelf on shaking legs.

Something drips onto the floor as I move. I glance down, Thorne’s cum coating the inside of my thighs and trickling down.

Turning and trying not to fall sideways, I search for him in the office and eventually find him a few feet away, using the top of his father’s chair for leverage as he bends forward and catches his breath.

Thorne lifts his head at my movements, his jaw tight, his face colorless. He regards me with flat eyes, but every other part of him is visibly trembling.

I part my lips. “I—”

“Get out.”

“What?” The question is out before I’ve fully processed his command.

“I said leave. Don’t bother cleaning yourself up first. Just get the fuck out.”

“F-Fine.” The word escapes with more emotion than I want it to.

I got what I wanted. He’s letting me leave without any further questions. So, why do I want to linger?

My skirt’s harder to get down than it was to pull up. I have to shimmy, dropping more of Thorne onto the floor. A stark reminder of what I let him do. What he almost did.

Thorne’s focus snags on the floorboards where he’s spilled. He sniffs as if unfazed, his gaze drawing up. I can’t read any reaction on his face, but I notice how hard his fingers curl into the chair’s leather, indenting the expensive material with brute force.

Finally decent, I move on wobbly heels to the door as Thorne tracks every move.

“Asshole,” I mutter when I unlock, then open, one of the doors.

“Thanks for the quick fuck,” he says to my back. “Though it wasn’t much of one.”

I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “That’s your second lie of the night.”

Then I shut the door behind me with a click.

28

Ember

Finding another passageway into the Briar mansion wasn’t easy. Now that the entrance through my bedroom is sealed shut, I spent a few too many nights figuring out how to get the blueprint records from the County Records Office, not entirely with permission. I didn’t have much architectural experience, but uploading Dad’s landscaping designs and marking certain lots and property lines for him gave me enough of an amateur eye to look over the Briar’s submitted historical designs and compare them to Weatherby Manor’s.

It’s how I found a second tunnel leading from an upper-level painting on the Briar side through the sitting room attached to Malcolm’s master bedroom.

Leaving me for days on end worked to Malcolm’s disadvantage. I explored, tested, and became well-versed in Victorian-era architectural layouts. Malcolm’s master bedroom was, of course, locked. There would be no getting to know my biological father through his personal items.

But the research also revealed that Weatherby Manor wasn’t always owned by the Weatherbys—the title first went to Thorne Briar, the OG of this place.

Considering the number of underground passageways leading to the home across the street, I suppose it made sense. Briar mansion was originally owned by Theodore Briar and passed down through the Briar line without interruption.

So how did the Weatherbys take over such an elaborate family home? Was it another challenge or bet won through the Societies?

My gut instinct is yes, and I make a note to ask Malcolm about it. Whether or not he decides to tell me is up to him. It makes sense now why he doesn’t take much care of it.