by Smoke , Lucy
“No, but there will always be other men out there. Other men like him." His words are careful and controlled.
Oh, this is just fucking rich, I think. I flip back around and advance on him. With every step forward, I can feel my anger rising. “There will always be men like Roger Murphy, Dean,” I snap. “Men who believe that everything their eyes land on is theirs for the taking.” His gaze narrows, and his head tips back as I stop right in front of him, within touching distance, but he doesn’t reach for me.
“Their sense of entitlement is not new to you or me. It’s as old as fucking time, itself. And like him—like that disgusting pig—there will always be women like me. Women who show men like him the consequences of their thoughts. So, I invite men like Roger Murphy to come for me.” I take a step back and spread my arms wide. “I welcome them with open-motherfucking-arms,” I say. “Because the second they step in and try to take what I’m not willing to give, they’ll find themselves in the same position. Six feet under. Pushing daisies.”
It’s then that I reach for him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt. I’m of average size, not too tall, not too short—but still, he towers over me. And for me, he lowers his head. Only for me, I remind myself.
“So stop treating me like a broken princess,” I hiss. “And use me like the fucking queen to your kingdom that I am.”
28
Dean
She's right. I want Avalon to be my queen. I want her to stay, and if I want her to stay...
My lips part. "I don't know who set you up," I begin. "But I know it wasn't Kate."
Avalon nods. "Of course not, she's not smart enough to pull something like this off."
"I don't trust Corina," I tell her. "She took you to that party."
Her beautiful thunderstorm eyes roll. "Corina's a spoiled rich bitch," she says. "I don't think she intended anything. If anything, I think she's just lonely for fucking friendship."
I straighten my back, reaching up to crack my neck as I stare at her. She looks at me, and I know what she wants—more information—but all I can do right now is just stare at her. She's so fucking strong and gorgeous and so mine.
My legs eat up the distance between us too fast for her to back away. Before she can stop me, my hands are around her waist, and I yank her into my body as I stare down into her somewhat surprised face. She recovers quickly, though, and arches a brow at me.
"I want an assurance," I tell her. "I give you everything..." And she gives me everything—all that she is, all that she will be. I will never again wake up and not have her lying next to me. There won't be another pussy I'll crave. There won't be any more dick in her future but the one I give her.
"I'll stay," she answers.
"More," I tell her. "You agree that you're mine."
The moon hangs heavy over the two of us, large and ripe and the only thing that illuminates her upturned face. Even with the light it casts over us, there are still shadows that creep all around—in the crevices of her eyelids, beneath her chin, over her throat, and beyond. For the first time, the image of her in reality is the same as I know it is inside. Half-light, half-darkness. Always on the edge of caving to the sinister emotions that lurk beneath.
Vengeance.
Cold, calculating fury.
Hate.
And worse, love.
This woman will love me. I will accept nothing less from her. But just as she'll love me, I will burn this fucking world to the ground if only she'd ask me to.
"Fine," she says through clenched teeth.
"No more hiding," I say.
"I don't hide," she replies.
I ignore her. "No more running."
She blanches but nods.
I take a breath. Just one and then release it slowly. "I have my suspicions about who was behind the setup, but I don't know why. It doesn't really make sense."
"Who?" she demands.
My gaze searches her face. I need to know if there's even a hint of uncertainty there. Will she turn away from me when I tell her what I know? If I'm being truthfully honest with myself, this is the main reason I haven't wanted to tell her.
"My father," I tell her.
Her eyes narrow and then move, roving over my face as if seeking any hint of deception. "And you don't know, why?" she asks.
I shake my head, my fingers clenching on her sides. Though she doesn't try to move away, I half expect it now. She looks thoughtful, her head tilting back as she bites down on her full lower lip. The desire to lean down and take that plush soft pink lip between my teeth and give her a bite of my own rises.
"Do you think it's because of us?" she asks, her gaze returning to mine.
"My father doesn't pay much attention to my life," I say. "He hasn't since I turned eighteen and came here."
"But you see him regularly?"
"Semi-regularly. I tried getting an appointment with him to get some information after we got back from break, but he avoided me. I only managed to catch him because I barged into his office. Your advisor—Bairns—was there."
"She was adamant about me staying at Eastpoint, though," Avalon says. "Seemed very nervous about me not signing up to take the scholarship after I finished my high school level courses. She was relieved when I accepted the scholarship."
I sigh, leaning away as Avalon's arms drift up to my sides. My eyes close as I try to think, but thinking with her hands on me is damn near impossible. "That file I showed you when you first got here—it was given to us by them—we were supposed to watch you."
"Them?" she repeats, confusion coloring her tone.
"The other dads," I clarify. "Braxton’s and Abel's fathers are all on the school board as well. They're just as wealthy as the Carter family, and we're all connected in some way, shape, or form. Hell, we're practically family—though not close blood relatives."
Her nails slip beneath my shirt and scrape against the skin alongside my abs. I growl and jerk my head down. "You better stop that," I warn her. "Or you'll find yourself bent over the front of Abel's Mustang with your legs around my head."
She grins. "Maybe that's exactly where I want to be."
"You wanted information," I remind her as her nails trail closer to the button of my jeans. Fuck, she's driving me crazy.
"And you gave it, finally," she said. "You'll tell me the rest."
"Yes." My stomach contracts as her naughty little fingers undo the button and then slides my zipper south. A hiss escapes my mouth. "Avalon." Her name is a warning on my lips. If she's not careful, all of the fighting we'd done, every rough step right to this very moment—me, caving to her wants and demands—will be shoved right into a blender. There are very few things in the world that can distract me from a subject so important, but she's one of them. Not just one of them, she's at the top of the fucking list.
I groan as her hand delves into my pants and encircles my cock. It's already hard for her. It's always hard for her. She grips it at the base and then pumps it once, twice, three times. That's all it takes for me to lose control.
Ripping her hand away, I palm her ass cheeks and lift her into my arms. I storm back to the Mustang and round to the front. Her hands go back as I set her down, pressing into the bright red paint of the hood. Panting, I leverage up and away from her. Even as I do so, however, her legs wrap around my hips and keep me pinned.
"We will find them, Dean," she says, reaching forward and grasping the front of my shirt. She uses her hold to drag my body closer. Her eyes flash in the moonlight as she glares up at me. "And when we do, what are we going to do?"
I see. That's what the sudden change in attitude is for. She needs to feel grounded. She needs violence and my control. I reach up and grasp her throat. Avalon's lips part as she groans and releases my shirt. Pressing closer, I level my mouth alongside her ear.
"We'll make them fucking pay, baby," I tell her. "We will fucking wreck them and make them wish for death."
A shudder works through her. Not out of disgust, but out of
pure, unadulterated pleasure. My free hand goes to the button on her jeans. I pop it and then press my palm to her stomach, slipping inside. Wet heat greets my fingers, and I release a low groan.
"You're fucking killing me, baby," I tell her.
I can't wait. I shove her legs off and grab the waistband of her pants, dragging them completely down, struggling to get them off over her boots. She laughs, the sound loud and feminine in the quiet next to the cliffs. Out here, there's nothing else but her and me. The sound of the waves crashing far below and my own booted feet kicking her legs apart as I slide right back where I belong, between her thighs.
"You were a dirty girl," I say, reaching down and fingering her little clit. It pokes out from its hood, pink and glistening and ready. "You got turned on by all this talk of violence, didn't you?"
She chuckles. "You know I did."
Pushing my own pants down and out of the way, I fist my cock and guide the head straight for her weeping slit. She shudders again when I shove inside without preamble. I clench my teeth as her hands slip up over my shoulders and sink into my flesh as though she wants to draw blood. If that's what she wants, it's fine, but I'm going to make her work for it.
I pull out and slam back into her hot pussy, eliciting a grunt from her lips. Her hooded eyes blow wide open, and she stares up at me as I fuck her, long and hard. "Say it," I order.
Her lips press together. I pound her relentlessly, not willing to take no for an answer. We made a deal out here, and now she has to honor it. She'll get all she wants from me. Information—even about my own fucking father—and my dick, but I get something in return, and she knows what I want.
"Fucking. Say. It." I growl the words, thrusting for each one. I reach down and pinch her clit when her lips remain stubbornly closed. A cry escapes, and I arch forward, shoving my cock in so that I hit that sweet spot in the back, and my mouth takes hers.
Our tongues duel like masters of the craft—fighting for dominance. She bites and sucks and moans as I fuck her. My cock piercing drags along her inner folds, lighting her up from the inside, I'm sure.
It's only when we're on the precipice, right as it overtakes us, that she finally rips her mouth away from mine. She clamps down on me, and I can feel my cum ready to erupt. My hand sinks into her hair, grabbing ahold and yanking back. "Avalon," I say. "Tell me."
Her eyes open, and the clouded haze of lust and pleasure almost make me come undone too early. Almost. They slide to mine, and then her lips part and the sweetest words I'll ever fucking hear in my life finally emerge.
"I'm yours," she says, and just like that, I reach down and reward her with another pinch to her pretty pink clit, and the two of us crash over the edge, straight into a mind-numbing orgasm.
29
Avalon
They know. Those are the first words that cross my mind the next time I step foot on Eastpoint University’s campus. They all know. They know what I’m capable of, and they know that I have complete and utter immunity. Though there aren’t many students left on site, those that are watch me when I walk by on my way past the student union.
I wonder if this is how Dean first felt when he came to Eastpoint. I wonder if this is how he feels every day of his life. Watched. Scouted. Almost as if with a fearful respect or admiration. The son of an infamous billionaire, not only is he an heir to this university’s foundation but an heir to a monetary empire, the likes of which even these prep school kids have no concept of. I still find it impossible to deal with, and I’m … his girlfriend now.
That’s right. I’m Dean Carter’s fucking girlfriend.
If someone had told me that this is where I’d be months ago when I first came here, I’d have laughed in their face right before I broke their nose. It’s not just my reality at present, I have the feeling that Dean Carter is going to be my whole fucking future if I’m not careful.
The building that houses Ms. Bairns' office looms before me. I jerk the door open and head straight for the elevator. Hopefully, this will be one of the last times I have to meet her. Once I'm no longer under the dual enrollment program and I'm a full-fledged college student, I doubt meetings like this will be necessary—that is unless they require me to meet on a regular basis due to the scholarship, but I doubt it since Rylie's on scholarship, and I've never seen her enter this building.
I stare as the numbers above the door glow as the elevator rises, passing each unneeded floor until it dings and the doors slide open. Once again, I'm in the hallway of staid, old white men portraits. Soft light pours in from the windows shining over the faded paint, and I try to ignore the beady black and white eyes that watch me as I pass by.
As I come to the end of the row, I slow down and stop. On the wall, there's an empty space where one of the paintings has been recently removed. Everything is spotless—there's no doubt they have a top-notch cleaning company—and yet there's still an outline from where the sun has bleached the paint around where the portrait once hung.
"Unsightly, isn't it?" an unfamiliar voice calls.
I start and turn towards it, finding a tall, older man standing there against the windows. I take him in. Everything from the dark roots of his hair to the gray in his light beard to the pristine and perfectly tailored suit. I can't help but wonder if he's talking about me.
Unsightly. It's not exactly the word people had used in Plexton. It'd been more like—unclean, trailer park trash, a whore's daughter. It shouldn't surprise me that the wealthy elite of this school would think the same.
The man's eyes meet mine, and he nods to the empty space on the wall. "Don't you think?" he inquires. That's when I realize, he isn't talking about me. He's talking about the wall.
Of course, he is. Not everyone is thinking about me all the time. Not everyone is concerned with who has what.
I shake my head. "Uh, yeah, I guess," I reply a bit lamely, still watching him.
"I'm having a new portrait commissioned," he says. "One for the new heirs of Eastpoint."
I frown. "You are?" I ask. Who the hell is this man?
The man takes a step towards me and smiles. My lips part as I realize my mistake. The age of his features—the soft lines that touch his mouth and eyes and forehead—can't hide the similarities. The strong, cut jawline. The same features. But most of all, it's his eyes. Dark brown and full of secrets that tell me exactly who he is.
"Mr. Carter," I say.
His smile spreads. "It's lovely to finally meet you, Avalon. My name is Nicholas Carter." He holds out his hand as if greeting an old friend. "I must say, it's good to see that you look nothing like your mother."
My eyes fall to the hand between us, and I take a slow and deliberate step back. I don't even pretend to be civil. "How the hell do you know what my mother looks like?" I demand.
The corners of his lips turn down, and his smile falls slowly, as if he keeps hoping I'll take it, but when I don’t, he returns his hand to his side. "I know a great many things about you, Avalon," he replies. "I am, after all, the one who brought you here."
"What?" Shock rockets through me, and my heart starts beating faster. Sweat collects at the back of my neck as a blaring sign of danger begins to flare bright red in my mind.
"Though, I will admit, I never expected my son to take such an interest in you," he continues. "If anything, I would have bet he'd be more frustrated by you than enamored. Imagine my surprise when I find out you're now living with him and his friends."
"What do you want?" I ask.
Mr. Carter sighs. "I want a great many things, Ms. Manning," he tells me. "I want to do my work and make the money that I make, and other than that, I want my life to be a simple one, but for men such as myself, that is, unfortunately, never as easy as we hope."
I glance back down the hallway, but there are no other doors save for the ones at either, end and the campus is all but deserted. "I have a meeting," I say. If I can just get through Ms. Bairns' door, maybe I can do something. Call Dean. Or something!
&nbs
p; Shit. A new thought arrives in my head. Dean said that someone had set me up. That someone, he thought, was his father. So, why is the man here now? Catching me alone when I haven't been for weeks.
"There's no need to be frightened of me, Avalon," Mr. Carter says. "I only want to help you."
"I'm not afraid of you," I snap. "I'm just in a hurry. I have a meeting with my counselor."
"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" He frowns as if he truly can't understand my reaction. "Don't you want to know why you're here?"
"I'm here because I accepted a scholarship to Eastpoint University," I state. "If you're insinuating that I've been given special privileges, well..." I meet his eyes and scowl. "I can assure you that I haven't." Not with all the shit I'd been through the last several months, first with the Sick Boys, then with Kate Coleman and Roger, and now this. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I have been given special attention—but it's not good attention, that's for fucking sure.
"I am in no way denying the fact that you've earned your place here at Eastpoint, Ms. Manning," Mr. Carter replies. "You're intelligent. Your classwork has never suffered despite any … extracurriculars you might take part in." I stiffen, but he doesn't acknowledge it as he continues. "And you've certainly got my son wrapped around your pretty finger. You're competent, and the scholarship is yours, of course. You belong here."
"Then what's the problem?" I finally snap. "Why are you here? What's with the subterfuge?" And again, how the hell does he know my mother?
He inhales a long breath through his nose, his chest expanding with the movement. When he moves, he moves with a gracefulness I don't expect to seem so masculine. He also moves with a speed and agility I don't expect a forty-something year old businessman to possess. One moment we're standing several feet apart—me on guard, him lounging against the windows like a sleek, sleepy old predator. The next minute, he's right in front of me, his dark gaze so similar to Dean's that it both soothes my agitation and ramps up my heartbeat at the same time.
