Page 5 of Casual Felonies (Wildlings #1)

“And now you know why people say, ‘Eat the rich.’ The Whitakers are literally worth hundreds of millions of dollars and are still willing to steal so they don’t lose status.”

He chews his bottom lip, a war going on behind his pretty eyes as I rinse out the conditioner.

“My family lawyer called this morning and told me to give over all the work Brant and I did together. ”

Rami shakes his head like he doesn’t even want to consider it. The move causes water to spray all over my belly and into his eyes.

“Hey.” I grip the back of his head. “Keep still.”

“Sor-sorry,” he says, exhaling on an unsteady breath, letting the weight of his head settle into my hand as I finish rinsing. “I’ll try to be still for you.”

Dangerous .

“Besides,” I say, wrapping his head in a towel and squeezing out the excess water before raising his chair, “embezzlement isn’t nearly as sexy as a hot Wildling doing charity work tied to a massive trust fund. The gossip sites are just making a big deal out of it for the clicks.”

We’ve never talked about this, but the details of their trust-fund requirements leaked six months ago, and now every charity, legit or not, is banging down their doors.

“Is that what you think of me?” he asks, pulling away from my touch. “That I’ve only done this because my dads are holding my trust fund over my head?”

I set aside the towel.

“No,” I say, and find that I am telling the truth. “Even though your dads scare the shit out of me, I can tell how much they love you and your sister. Like, the whole giving provision is because they wanna ensure you two don’t grow up to be towering assholes, right?”

“More or less,” he answers, a smile spreading across his wide mouth. He arches a brow, those pretty eyes sparkling. “But why would they scare the shit out of you? Don’t let the money fool you—they’re super embarrassing most of the time.”

I’ve picked up on it in our previous appointments, but this guy has zero clue about his dads, which blows my mind every time I think about it.

Reason seven hundred and eighty-two why I won’t be fucking Rami Bash. Even if his plush mouth is practically begging for my cock.

Lock. Box.

“Okay, sure,” I say, drawing my finger across my bottom lip, ignoring how he tracks the movement and going for the tease instead. “You have to be aware that they are intimidatingly hot, and not just for men of their ages.”

His jaw drops and he places his hand on his chest, so dramatic. “Wait, I’ve been coming to you for two years straight, and all you can talk about is how hot my dads are?”

I shrug. “Just calling it as I see it. Hot dads teaching their— admittedly handsome —son that helping out your fellow man is a good thing.”

Even though I’m goading him, I bite back the real questions like, Ever wonder why you have no shortage of people to “help?” Ever think that, maybe, it’s the systems that should be changed?

I’d love to be dismissive, say it’d go right over his pretty little head, but the real problem is that he’d listen and do something, and I’d have him bent over this sink in a heartbeat.

“Admittedly handsome?” he scoffs, his eyes burning a hot trail down my body. “Why are you saying that like I’m some sort of consolation prize?”

I run my fingers through his hair, smoothing out his rough edges with my firm grip. “Please. You’re no one’s consolation prize, and you know it.”

Pathetic, Valentine. Just cut the man’s hair already.

“Yeah, well, when you find out how many of your friends and lovers are willing to sell you out for a viral video, it’s hard not to feel…less than,” he admits, his eyes a little sad.

Grabbing the towel, I dry my hands. “You know, if someone fucked me over like that, I’d take them out back and beat the shit out of them. Send a message to anyone else who wants to try me.”

“I dunno. That’s not really my style.” He gestures the length of me, then in a circle at my place: Valentine’s in a black neon scrawl on the outside, brick and ferns interspersed with gritty bathhouse photos on the inside. “But I can see how it’d be yours,” he says with a flirty smile.

Those fucking bionic eyes of his glow against his tan skin and black hair and a flash of straight white teeth accompanies his arrogant smirk, testing my resolve. He holds my gaze, torching every reason I have for keeping my clothes on.

“Truett…”

The velvety need in his voice fucking grips my cock. I freeze, trying not to make any sudden moves.

Cursing under his breath, his eyes dart away and back in a millisecond, like I’m not supposed to see the flutter of insecurity before he plasters on that fucking smirk again.

“Whaddya say, Valentine?” He boldly runs his manicured fingernails along my wrist. “You’re hot. I’m hot. I’ve had a really fucking bad day. Work me over, and then we’ll go back to barber and client. Easy.”

He delivers the line like a throwaway, and I imagine there aren’t many queer men on the planet who wouldn’t be flattered right out of their clothes. Thankfully, he’s got his baba’s eyes, and every fear about fucking the son of Anders Bash goes double for the son of Omar Noorani Bash.

It’s good to remind myself that if his fathers ever caught wind of me dirtying up their precious son, Anders would merely be the opening salvo.

Here’s a piece of unsolicited advice for you: no matter how charming or flirtatious, don’t fuck with the offspring of a child soldier, especially one who was trained in the Noorani family tradition.

Someone survives that, you don’t go rooting around in their darkness.

I’d rather fall into a pit of rattlesnakes, ’cause at least death would come quickly.

It’s unnerving how unaware Rami is of the firepower in his lineage. Every man he’s ever slept with was only one misstep away from being kept alive against his will, and Rami has not one fucking clue.

I thank the useless gods for my survivor instincts and step out of reach of Rami’s stupidly elegant fingers.

“Yeah, man. That’s not gonna work for me,” I say, cursing my life.

He blinks up at me like an oversexed Hentai character. So contrite. So needy. So pretty as he begs with those luminous, sad little rich boy eyes. I can practically feel his father’s gun to my head, but… fuck . Those eyes .

Water drips in the bowl while I steel my resolve.

Don’t fuck the murder offspring, Valentine.

“Please, True. Let me suck you off. I promise I’ll be so good for you, and then we can go back to being client and barber, I swear.”

Fucking devil in a Harvard T-shirt.

Has anyone ever said no to this man?