Page 33

“Oh and Porter,” she called out, causing me to look over my shoulder. “I don't know how that girl ended up with you, and I'm not sure I want to know. But be nice to her, I kind of like that one.” Winking, she grabbed her pocketbook, and threw it over her shoulder. “Franco, I'm heading to the car!”

I heard the door to my father's office open and close, his steps echoing between the walls as he approached the top of the stairs. Fixing the cuffs on his sleeves, he stared down at me, his face still cured in resentful hate.

My mother wasn't able to keep me at arms length for too long, deep down she still loved me. Despite the hell I rained down on her, she knew I hadn't done any of that shit on purpose.

But Franco, he never looked at me with anything but hate in his eyes.

Stepping to the side, I made room for him to walk by. “Don't do anything stupid while we're out, I'd hate to come home and find the house in flames because your little friends figured out where we live. You can't stay for long, I want you gone,” he grumbled as his shoulder brushed my chest.

“Franco, that's enough.” My mother rolled her eyes as she dug around in her purse for her keys. “You have to stop doing that to him, stop treating him like he doesn't belong.”

Smiling to myself, it was nice to finally see my mother standing up to him. She wasn't bowing her head like she used, she wasn't sitting quietly and letting him take the lead. For the first time in ages my mother wasn't just a pretty bag hanging off his arm, she had found her voice.

Walking to her side, my father and her started bickering back and forth about me as they stepped outside and closed the door.

You'd think by the way they sounded that I was still sixteen years old and they were leaving me home alone for the weekend.

Shaking my head to myself, I sauntered upstairs, stopping outside her door. Knocking softly, she didn't answer, staying quiet.

Opening the door slowly, I poked my head in and saw her sleeping. As quietly as I could, I walked to the bed, setting the plate down on the nightstand. With my hands at my sides, I watched her.

It might sound strange, but I liked watching her while she was sleeping. She was beautiful, small and fragile, but perfect.

Her hair was fanned out around her head, her cheeks and lips tinted the faintest shade of pink. She had a small button nose with freckles that spanned just beneath her eyes, stopping at the very edges.

Tilting my head, I sat down beside her and placed my hands in my lap. I could stare at her for hours and never get bored. There was something about this woman that sent prickling hairs down my arms and made my insides twist and turn.

Following the bend of her shoulder, my gaze licked her body, taking in all she had to offer. I watched her chest rise and fall with even breaths, and the delicate skin of her neck as she swallowed peacefully in her sleep.

Her curves were perfection, shaped like an hourglass, with hips I wanted grip and an ass I could ride for days. The warmth I felt flowed through me, moving through my veins and around my body. It reminded me of when I was a kid and would drink hot chocolate after coming inside from the cold.

Intricately it hit me in every crevasse, every pore and strip of muscle, seeping through my stomach and into my pants. My cock thickened as her perfect raindrop-shaped tits pushed against the tight black fabric of her dress.

She looked like sleeping beauty, a princess that had been poisoned by the apple I handed her. Running my hand over the surface of her face, I didn't touch her. I was afraid to wake her, afraid to sour the moment with the anger and hatred she felt for me.

I would hate me too for what I've done.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet as her eyes scanned my face.

Jerking my hand away, I rubbed the back of my neck. “I'm checking on you.”

Emery watched me cautiously, shifting her body so she could push herself up. “Where's your mom? I thought she was going to do that.”

“She had to run out, but she made you lunch.” Flicking my eyes to the plate, I nodded my head. “I hope you like turkey.”

Cupping her hands in her lap, she licked her lips. “Is your father here?”

“He's not my father.” My voice came out quick and firm.

“But your mom said—”

“I know what she said, but he's not my father, he's my stepfather.” I tried to hold back the anger from my tone, but it was hard. “I used to call him that, but things haven't been good between us.”

“Well, I can only imagine why.” Her voice went faint, the words weightless and delicate as she turned her head to look at the window. “Does he know what you're capable of?”

Taking in a deep breath, I closed my eyes. “You can't see it, it's not what you think it is. You think you understand what's going on and who I am, but you don't.”

“So I'm wrong?”