by Alley Ciz
Once her feet are once again flat on the ground, I expect her to step away, to put as much distance between us as she can as quickly as possible.
She doesn’t.
Samantha stands there, one of my hands curled around her nape, the other still anchored at her hip, her brow furrowed as she meets my gaze head-on.
We’re in a battle of wills, the core of our beings like identical magnets forced together, only able to succumb and repel each other when too close, despite the cocoon of sexual tension that constantly wraps us in its grasp.
I want her, and I’ll have her.
But…
It’s her obedience I crave more than anything else. Even if it means I have to fuck it out of her—I’ll. Have. It.
One thing does stick out and prickles at the back of my mind. “I am curious about one thing.”
Released from my hold, Samantha is finally able to pull the strap of her bag over her head until it settles between her breasts, slung in a crossbody fashion. “What’s that?” Her hands remain wrapped around the strap, thumbs twitching back and forth, worrying the edges.
“If you’re so hell-bent on not admitting you’re mine, why did you make sure to clarify you aren’t with Carter King?”
Her mouth opens slightly, and as my gaze drops to her tempting lips again, I can make out the shadow of her tongue running over the backs of her teeth as she mulls my question over. Her wit is so quick; her pausing to contemplate what to say only makes me more curious about the answer.
Time ticks between us, only the faint strains of the next song on my playlist filling the silence. The longer our stare down continues, the more the urge to have my hands on her again increases.
Blowing out a breath strong enough to puff out her cheeks like a chipmunk, she straightens her shoulders, and the intensity in her stare grows. “Because contrary to what you believe about me, I’m not just some race rat who’s happy to hop from one bed to another.”
I need to lock my knees against the relief the confirmation levels me with. What the hell?
“I’m still trying to figure out your angle, and though your methods leave a lot to be desired, you did me a solid on Friday.” The warning bell rings for homeroom, and she starts to walk away backward. “For some reason I can’t explain, I don’t want that tainted by some misguided alpha-hole possessiveness.”
The left side of my mouth hitches up in the smirk that causes her eyes to narrow. She wants to smack me for it; I can tell. “I know the reason, Princess.”
Her steps continue, the distance growing until we need to shout to be heard. “And what’s that, Noble?”
One day I swear I’ll get her to say my name. The final bell rings, and I jog to catch up, slinging an arm around her shoulders and making her huff when I do. “You and me?” I chuck her under the chin, my black mood from this weekend completely gone. “We’re becoming friends.”
She rolls her eyes and shrugs out from under my arm. “I think someone forgot to set their alarm this morning because clearly, you’re still dreaming if you think that is true.”
CHAPTER 20
A wolf whistle followed by a “Dayum, Bitchy!” has my shoulders shaking as I lower my phone from the overhead angle I held it in to show off the back—or more accurately, lack of one—of my dress.
For as…weird as this week has been and as much as I’m not looking forward to this evening, getting to have my own movie montage Cinderella moment while shopping was definitely the highlight. Natalie’s motivations for giving me carte blanche with Mitchell’s black card may be steeped in some kind of hidden agenda, but I’m not going to complain about the end result.
“I take it you approve?” I make my way over to the vanity and settle on the padded stool, fiddling with the back of my stiletto until it lies flat against my heel, and I take a moment to appreciate the shoe-porn perfection gracing my feet.
The four-inch, pointy-toe high heels have a see-through fabric that encases the majority of my foot and a Swarovski crystal overlay grouped in a cluster over the toe, fanning up the side until it covers the spiky heel. When you look at them, the overall impression is that of a glass slipper, keeping with the Cinderella feel of the night.
“Approve?” The octave of Tessa’s voice rises along with an eyebrow. “Shiiiit, talk about an understatement, Savs.” She waves me off and rolls her eyes. “That dress is so damn lethal. I’m tempted to ask you to keep it on for tonight to help give me an edge.” Her pretty face screws up, brows bunching, nose scrunching before she says, “You know what? Nope, don’t do that. When I say it’s lethal, I mean it’s enough to distract even me later.”
“Aww…” I flip my hair behind my shoulder and lay a hand over my heart. “You’d go gay for me, T?”
“Dressed like that?” Her blue eyes do another quick scan as if checking out my whole body when she can only make out the upper half. “Hell yeah I would.” She shifts forward on the couch, elbows braced on her knees as she attempts to get closer to the camera mounted under the television at Kay’s place. “Just think of how Charming’s or any of the other guys’ heads would explode”—she mimes the actions, hands opening in a burst by her temples—“if I started to tongue you down in the middle of a hand of poker?”
I choke-laugh at her insanity, thumping my chest to clear the saliva that managed to find its way down my windpipe.
“Alas.” Tessa dramatically sighs like a heroine in one of her historical romances, back of the hand to the forehead, body melting back into the cushions of the leather couch and all. “We are homo-ly challenged.” Another one of those full-face scrunches makes an appearance. “No, wait, that makes us sound homophobic. We are heterosexually…umm…that’s wrong too. Shit! Why am I making it harder for us? We are strictly dick-ly.”
This chick is over the top and out of her mind, but damn if I don’t love the shit out of her.
“Samantha.” Natalie calls my name, the click-clack of her own stilettos serving as a warning she’s on her way to me. “Oh, good—” Her eyes rake over me from the top of my professionally-styled curls down to the crystal tips of my shoes peeking out from the long hem of my evening gown. Unlike with Tessa, there’s more calculation in the appraisal than anything else. “—you’re ready.”
I arch a brow, choosing to remain silent though a sarcastic comment about having been able to dress myself for years itches to burst free. Natalie hired a team of hairstylists and makeup artists to get us ready for tonight’s Blackwell Academy Alumni Gala. All that was left to do was get dressed after having my long silver locks sculpted into big barrel curls and pinned back on the left side with crystal hairpins, followed by the full-face glam treatment. I can’t complain because my makeup is on point. I did allow myself a tiny streak of rebellion and finished the look off with a killer black lip.
Spinning around on the stool, I reach for the matching crystal clutch, double-checking I have everything I need. My shoulders tense, and I bite down on my molars at the hissed whistle I hear from Natalie sucking her teeth. What now?
“I really wish you would have allowed the makeup artists to cover that monstrosity on your back for the night.” She makes a noise of disgust in the back of her throat. “I still can’t believe you let your brother”—she spits out Carter’s relation to me like he’s not her own son—“mark you permanently. Tattoos are so uncouth.”
Again I bite my tongue instead of giving her a response. If being overdramatic burned calories, Natalie wouldn’t have to diet a day in her life. Tattoos are far from the taboo no-no they used to be. The tire tread running from the base of my skull to the top of my tailbone is both tastefully and artfully done in white ink. Hell, it’s barely visible unless you get up close and personal with it.
“Remember our deal?”
I nod. While our beauty treatments should have been a relaxing few hours, I spent them getting a crash course in what’s expected of me tonight. Who I should associate with. How I’m expected to act. How essential it is that I make
a good impression on the Delacourtes. Honestly, most of it went in one ear and out the other.
Smoothing down the stretchy jersey-style material of my gown, I click my heels together and say, “Ready?”
The sooner we get there, the quicker it’ll be over.
Wrapping the good humor from my phone call with Tessa around me like a cloak, I thank the attendant holding the door to the largest ballroom at the St. James and step inside, opulence and grandeur smacking me in the face as soon as I do.
Candelabras and tall vases topped with elegant floral arrangements are the focal points at each of the ten-person tables. I can’t count the number of crystal flutes and wine glasses set around silver charging plates and stacked bone china stamped with the Blackwell Academy crest.
Each of the large three-story square white pillars bracketing the archways that make up the massive space’s perimeter has silver uplighting that ends with a twinkle-light effect. There’s a sleek black lacquered stage at the opposite end of the room where a twelve-piece orchestra plays a medley of Sinatra’s greatest hits.
It’s kind of like a fairy tale. Guess that’s what happens when the cost per plate is upward of four figures.
The bite of Natalie’s nails pinches my skin through the long sleeve of my dress as she grabs me by the elbow. To anyone looking, all they would see is a mother guiding her daughter through a crowded room, but the way she discreetly twists her fingers is both a reminder and a warning to play along.
I slip on my congenial daughter smile, puff out a breath, and dutifully fall into step. A few hours of servitude, and then I’m free to spend the rest of the weekend at my brother’s.
I follow along as Mitchell and Natalie make the rounds, stopping to speak and introduce me to more people than I’d ever care to know.
I’m not sure how long we’ve been at this, but it’s long enough for the balls of my feet to beg for a reprieve from all the standing around I’ve been doing while the parental units—oh, you heard that sarcasm did you?—make idle chitchat.
Bored and in desperate need of something that will allow me to excuse myself, I start to scan the room. Unfortunately, I know Tinsley won’t be here—none of the scholarship students are—but I seek out anything I can use as an escape.
I’m halfway through my survey of the massive space when all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, the familiar feeling of being watched washing over me.
It’s him.
Changing my tactic from a cursory glance to a more detailed inspection, I search out the set of pearly eyes I know are on me.
The breath in my defective lungs hitches, and my nipples tighten painfully against the adhesive of my bra cups when I find them. Holy shit!
Dressed in a graphite gray tuxedo, a tumbler of amber liquid lazily held in one hand, ankles crossed, one shiny patent leather dress shoe draped over the other, Jasper Noble leans against the mahogany bar, braced on one elbow.
For years Wes has been the only guy I’ve consciously been attracted to. However, I think as I’ve gotten older, it’s been more of a way to mess with my brother by flirting with his friend than deep-seated feelings. Besides, I get the impression the prince has more of a sweet tooth than he lets on.
Still…
None of that past flirting or my own personal experiences seem to be enough preparation against the least noble man of all. I’ve admitted, albeit reluctantly, to being attracted—though it seems like such a mild word for what courses through me whenever I see, hear, smell, or hell, sense him near me—to Jasper.
Add in how he’s been trying to “play nice” all week, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do when it comes to him.
CHAPTER 21
The Blackwell Academy Alumni Gala is an annual event steeped in wealth. While the majority of the school’s yearly fundraising quota is reached tonight, it primarily serves as a platform for boasting that eventually turns into the rich man’s equivalent of a dick-measuring contest.
Freshman year, Duke and I spent the night fending off our mothers’ attempts at matchmaking. Who would have thought the two of us would end up being grateful for our fathers’ workaholic tendencies? When Walter Noble realized he now had a personal connection he could leverage to access the governor of our state, he jumped at the chance to exploit it. Since then, Duke and I have learned if we stick together at these types of events, our parents will mostly allow us to hang back while they work the room.
“Ho. Lee. Shit.” The drawn-out way Duke whispers and enunciates the curse has me glancing his way. He must sense my attention because his eyes don’t flit to me. Instead, he jerks his chin up and waits for me to follow his line of sight with a raised brow.
Scanning the sea of jewels, evening gowns, and tuxedos, it takes a moment to spot what, or more accurately, who elicited such a reaction…
Her.
Holy shit is right.
Are exorcisms a real thing? Is witch doctor a real profession? Asking for a friend.
Fucking Samantha St. James…
What the hell is it about her that has me and pretty much every person in possession of a penis—and some without—under her spell.
I don’t like her. Liar.
Fine…I don’t trust her. Better?
The problem is I barely know her. Hell, it’s only been about a week that we’ve managed to have any semblance of civil conversation, and that might be a stretch.
The things I do know about her don’t necessarily bode well for our coexistence.
She openly flirts with other guys and taunts me with them.
She pisses me off and pushes my buttons. Challenges me every step of the way, refusing to yield to the status quo.
She’s bad for my sense of control.
So why the hell is her unwavering loyalty to Tinsley and her redheaded friend one of the things that draws me to her most? She is a living, breathing, dick-hardening paradox.
Despite the bored expression on her face as Mitchell St. James and who I can only assume is her mother given the arm looped through his speak to the Vanderwaals, Arabella’s parents, she looks sexy as all fuck in a body-hugging black—no, wait, dark plum—evening gown.
The neckline is modest, running from one collarbone to the other, but the practically-a-second-skin fit of the dress shows off the plump swells of her breasts to perfection.
It isn’t until another person between us shifts that I fully understand why Duke has suddenly started to fiddle with the buttons of his tuxedo jacket.
Where the fuck is the back of her dress?
Every single inch of creamy skin from the nape of her neck to what I swear is millimeters above the crack of her ass is on display for anyone to see. The long line of her spine seems exaggerated, but that probably stems from fighting the urge to blind every person in the room to keep them from looking at what’s mine. Shit! There I go with the possessive thoughts again.
Wanna know the fucked-up part? It’s not the increased frequency with which those thoughts occur. No, it’s how my dick is at risk of busting through the zipper of my tailored tuxedo pants from the way she doesn’t shy away from my stare. She dares me.
“You’re so fucked, brother.” Duke snickers like a little girl behind his rocks glass, and I hate, hate that he’s going to end up being right. Samantha tempts me in a way that means I would be more likely to stop touching my dick than stop touching her.
“Fuck off.” I finally concede the stare down to glare at him.
I toss back the rest of the Macallan 25, relishing the smoky taste and thanking the loose morals of the privileged elite who don’t give a damn about legal drinking ages, and I bullshit with Duke, forcibly shoving all thoughts of Samantha from my mind.
My palm aches thanks to the intricate detailing etched into my rocks glass digging into it for the last hour. The constant barrage of comments from Duke and the other guys as they floated in and out of our conversation bubble had me clutching the crystal in an almost crushing grip.
�
��Look at that body.”
“I wonder if she’s commando.”
“Do you think we can get the air conditioner lowered until we can see her nipples? There’s no way she’s wearing a bra.”
“How hard do you think I’d have to fuck her mouth before that black lipstick smeared on my dick?”
Never in my life have I been more grateful for the master of ceremonies to announce the start of dinner than I am in this moment. Not even the knowledge that the Delacourtes aren’t seated with my family like they have been the last two years since Dad took over as the governor’s campaign strategist is enough to put a damper on my relief. Luckily our tables are situated side by side, and we’ll be able to sit backed up against each other.
Having not taken his seat yet, Dad is speaking with Headmaster Woodbridge and another man as we make our approach, and he gestures for Duke and me to join.
“Dad.” I move aside for another diner to settle into their chair and step into the small circle they’ve created in the diamond-shaped gap between the circular tables.
Handshakes and greetings are exchanged all around. “Jasper. Duke.” He waves a hand from us to the unknown yet familiar male of the bunch. “Have either of you had the privilege of meeting Mayor Chuck Falco?” Ah, that’s why I had the hint of recognition. He’s the mayor of Blackwell. Unsurprisingly, Duke nods his head yes while I shake mine no.
“Walter, sweetheart”—Mom steps up to the left of Dad’s shoulder, her eyes brightening when she catches sight of me—“oh, Jasper, honey.” Whatever else she was going to say to my father is cut off as she pushes past him to kiss my cheek, the sweet scent of her Coco Mademoiselle perfume following in her wake.
“Hi, Mom.” I return her embrace. I may be an asshole to most everybody, but not to her.
“Did you need something, Buffy?” Dad asks, bringing Mom’s attention back to him. And yes, before you ask, Buffy really is her name. She may have a stereotypical trophy wife name, but that’s the only thing about Buffy Rockwell-Noble that fits that mold.
