Page 53 of Forbidden Eyes
It hasn’t.
If anything, the distance from work, and the time to think has caused the polar opposite and made me ravenous for something so forbidden. A text from him a few hours ago telling me to stay off the grid while he deals with the situation isn't helping me forget about her either. Presumably she is the situation.
Still.
So that’s what I’m doing—staying off grid. Doing as I’m told. Again. It’s pissing me off and making me hungrier for her than I was already. What the fuck is he doing to delay the situation?
I wander down towards the sea, still sipping my espresso, and watch a group of women playing volleyball in the early evening dusk, uninterested in their lithe figures. Why? I should be all over that, enjoying the visual and tempting at least one of them to come have some of my kind of fun. Jesus. I’m gonna have to fuck the girl out of my system, aren’t I? Fuck, if that isn’t a sick thought. The only way I want to fuck her out of my system is by fucking her. I want her. Want everything about her. I want her moans and her screams. I want her hands braced and tied. And I want some screwed up version of closeness that I can’t wrap my damn head around at the moment.
It was her mouth that started all of this. The words she uses with that ivy-league tone of hers make everything sound high-class and out of my reach, no matter how much damn money I have. Prim and proper clothes, even when she’s casual. Intellectual. Classy. There isn’t a damn slutty thing about her.
Yet.
That makes the thought of defiling her all the more interesting because I’ve never had anyone like her—a virginal, high-class girl. I’ve fucked plenty of them once they’ve already been tainted. Something about degrading their status under me makes me feel energized, amused. But Fia?
That’s not what this is.
Not all of it, anyway.
And damn I don’t like being told I can’t have something I want.
My lips curl up into a smile as I think of that thing I’m not allowed again, eyes blurring the women around me into versions of her. Fuck, she looked good in a bikini. She’d look even better out of it, with my hand rammed inside her pussy and my dick lodged in her throat. No. I need a drink and someone else to fuck, or several of both.
I turn and head back towards the hotel, about ready to get in my car and go fuck myself into oblivion until I’m too weak to stand. My fingers reach for the car door, eyes scanning the locale for anything useful to play with. There isn’t anything, nothing worthy given the mood I’m in, anyway. I need one of the private clubs. There aren’t many here, not of any decent quality. It’s one thing Quinn always pushed into my head—high-end everything. I can remember him telling me the first time over. It was at breakfast and Emily was away. He looked at me over that grand table, silver service cutlery laid out neatly and a nanny just left the room with a newborn Logan in her arms, and he just said it out loud.
“When you fuck, you cover your dick in rubber or you make damn sure what you’re about to fuck is safe. You understand, Carter?”
Then he picked up his cutlery without missing a beat and started eating, nothing else to say on the matter. Guess he’d heard me jacking off and thought it was about time he had the fatherly chat. I’d gone as red as the carpet beneath our feet and scuttled from the room, all the time listening to his chuckles reverberating after me.
Dick.
Worked, though.
Mostly.
My ass slides into the car to cross town, my mind still thinking of everything I want to do, rather than everything I should do. I’ll go pick someone who looks something like her. Not easy, but doable. Five foot six. Soft blonde hair that feels like silk. Curves and legs that shouldn’t be seen by anyone but me. If she was mine, I’d probably lock her in a damn room, too. It’s not surprising Vico has all these years. He must have watched that pretty little girl grow up into what she is and scared the fuck out of himself thinking about what she was becoming. I snort, rounding the corners towards the club. Benjamin Vico scared.
What a fucking thought.
I’ve only met him twice, and both times just his eyes were enough to let me know what he was capable of. They’re villainous eyes, like there isn’t a goddamn thing he hasn’t seen or done in his life to get what he wants. They’re not polished or perfected like a Cane’s, regardless of the suits he wears or his good manners. They're old eyes. Wise eyes. And the stories I know, the things I’ve heard, and the results I’ve seen? Yeah, only a fucking moron screws around with him.
But her curves.
And that pretty voice dripping with guts and gravel.
Bet she’d scream for hours.
The car arrives beside the club quicker than I realise, and I find myself staring into the distance rather than getting out. The hell am I still thinking about her for? I shake my head and exit the car, tossing the keys at a valet and striding into the main waiting area. Four women are on me immediately, all of them dripping with the pretence of wealth they’re aiming for. Cheap pussy doesn’t get used well in here, never has according to Karl. Apparently, he got rid of that look about nine years ago, choosing both a new interior and breed of woman to help him make the most money possible. It was then I found the joint. Not that they’re all whores, only some of them.
My eyes scan around, arms shrugging the for-hire-girls off me. I’m not into fucking whores, never have been. I don’t need to or want to. The thought of paying for it pisses me off for some reason, like it’s a slight on my character, which is slighted enough as it is with the business I’m in. Karl Stanton, the owner, stands off to the side, his arms wrapped around two girls and one more knelt on the floor by his feet, ready to blow him on command. He nods at me as I cross over to the main bar, taking a long draw on his champagne, and then heads in my direction. I chuckle and tip the barkeep, pointing at the bottle of tequila.
“Carter,” Karl says, arriving next to me. He leans back on the bar and looks out into the room, a smile on his mouth. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” Yeah. He shouldn’t be seeing me now either given our last meeting, but I need to fuck and this is the first place I could think of for a sure thing without me hunting down the clubs and casinos. “You should apologise.”
“I didn’t then, I’m not gonna now.”
“You crashed my Maserati, Carter.”
“You got us drunk and then asked me to drive you home. Your fault. Still. Apologise to your own ass because you won’t be getting one from me, you dick.”