Page 14 of Good Boy
No matter what it took, I'd never give him that victory. I'd die first.
The tailor finished measuring me and gave a slight nod before making his way to the racks of suits. Weston followed behind him, barking orders while pointing out which ones he wanted to be brought out. I stepped down and walked over to the cart of liquors, quietly calling my name. I poured myself a glass of whiskey, the taste as bitter as the room I stood in as I drank, willing the burn of alcohol to replace the ache in my chest. I spent years burying the unresolved feelings of my father’s death eight years ago, and the secret I promised I would take to my grave. There was no closure when he died. No one cared about me or how it made me feel. My emotions, along with my existence, were swept under the rug like a dirty secret my family tried to hide.
"The fitting room is ready for you, Mr. Ash—"
"Don't call me that," I said, cutting the old man off.
He gave a curt nod and motioned me to follow him. I looked around for Weston. His voice carried through the small space as he tore someone a new asshole over the phone, but he was nowhere to be seen. He really was a miserable piece of shit at times.
The tailor opened a shiny wooden door with a gold handle, and I fixed my eyes on the ink-blue three-piece suit hanging flawlessly on a wooden hanger.
Weston's voice seemed to reverberate like thunder within the walls as he moved closer. I stepped inside, closing the door to the dressing room just as he caught my gaze. My forehead pressed against the solid wood, jolting me back to reality as I gasped for air. The sight of the suit summoned memories from a past life. My father's funeral. I hated dressing up, but damn if that suit wouldn’t make me look like sex on legs.
Alone at last, I stripped off my shirt and jeans, the soft fabric of the suit a shock against my skin. The vest hugged my torso like a glove; the jacket emphasizing the width of my shoulders.
Looking in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. I looked like one of those rich fucks who sneered at people when they got too close.
But the man staring back was all hard edges and danger, not softness and snobbery. A wolf in sheep's clothing.
"Any day now. I do have shit to do." Weston's voice called from the other side of the door.
I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth and opened the door. Weston's attention was on his phone, and I had the urge to slam the fucking door right in front of his face, but then he looked up, his expression one that I've never seen before. His lips parted, and his eyes darkened with lust. He blinked, the ridge of his jaw going taut as I held his gaze.
I turned my attention back to the full-length mirror. "How do I look?"
He ended the call and slipped his phone into his pocket. "Like an asshole in a suit."
"So, like an Ashbourne?"
He came up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist as he clamped down on the ends of the tie dangling around my neck. "Don't forget the stick that goes up your ass. That's the final touch," he teased.
"Maybe you should try fucking your wife now and then. You know, and maybe you'll shit that stiff rod right out."
I jerked backward, the bulge of my throat wrenched up and down as he tightened the tie around my neck.
"Oh, I fuck, I enjoy fucking, and if…" His words trailed off as he applied more pressure, "You keep running that mouth of yours, I'll make sure to fuck it until you can't speak anymore."
His hands slid down my front, cologne and power wafting off him in waves as he breathed in my ear. I had every reason to hate the man standing behind me, and I did, but the sheets of ice that cracked down my spine as I let his scent suffocate me with each breath was like an undeniable craving, a burning need that seemed to smolder within me.
What the fuck.
"Gather your things. We need to get back. I'll be out front." He stepped back and took one look in the mirror before heading for the door. "And wear the suit. I like it."
* * *
The slick black sedan purred up to the curb. Weston climbed in before it came to a complete stop, and in a matter of seconds was on a call, barking orders to the poor soul on the other end. I yanked the door open and slid in beside him, my knee brushing his. A jolt shot straight to my dick.
My skin prickled as his gaze raked over me, taking in the tailored suit. A spark of something dangerous flickered in his eyes before he looked away.Fuck. What the hell was that?
I fumbled with the minibar, craving the burn of whiskey down my throat, but the fucking thing wouldn’t open. With an impatient huff, Weston reached over and popped it open. His fingers grazed mine, sending another electric shock through me.
I started to mutter a thanks, but the words died in my throat as his hand came to rest on my thigh. A sharp pleasure-type pain shot through me and my heart kicked into overdrive.What the fuck was he doing?
Weston kept talking, like his hand wasn’t burning a hole through my new pants. His thumb dug into my inner thigh, inching higher.
I clenched my jaw to trap the groan building in my chest. My cock strained against the zipper of these fucking tailored pants. The car slowed, darkness cloaking us like a veil as the sedan eased into the underground parking garage. Weston ended the call, but his hand remained in place.
My body heaved with jagged breaths, yet no sound escaped the dense fog of silence. Weston’s fingers curled into a fierce grip and then relaxed again as the car came to a stop. In that instant, I knew all hope was lost.