Page 44 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

Hmm. Let me guess—he’ll try to assert his dominance? Memories of how good being under his control felt flood my mind, warming my body from head to toe. His threats don’t scare me. I wrap the towel around me, lift my chin, and spin around, leaving the room and rushing upstairs to change.

Fuck it. I’m going to dinner. I’m hungry.

Mace won’t stop me from eating. He thinks he can be cold to me for a week and everything will be fine?

That’s not how it works, and maybe he needs to hear that.

If he expects a pliant, submissive lady who’ll let his transgressions slide, he picked the wrong wife.

After a quick shower, I tug on a pair of shorts and an old band tee, leaving my hair to air dry.

I make my way down the stairs, pulse thrumming as I approach the dining room.

Chef is placing the last dish on the table.

Her focus cuts to me, and I can already hear the reprimand in her narrow-eyed expression.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry I was late.”

She lifts both eyebrows. “You look like a wet dog.”

“Your food tastes like ass.”

She scoffs. “No, it doesn’t.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever, Cheffy.”

“The wine didn’t work,” she observes, lips tugging down.

“The wine was fine. It’s the husband that’s the problem,” I grumble.

She tsks and smooths her apron. “It’s too early for him to annoy you.”

“He’s always annoyed me,” I admit, eyeing the food. “But here we are.”

Chef approaches me, her face suddenly serious. “Can I offer you some sage advice?”

I eye her. She’s not old enough to qualify as someone who would be a sage, but I’ll roll with it. “Uh, sure?”

“Don’t be late next time. ”

Rearing back, I shake my head. “Here, I thought you actually cared.”

“Look around you, Cassia. What do you have to complain about? People would die to live this way.”

The frustration from Paige, Mace’s attitude, and everything else has been compounding. Chef’s words are the last straw. “You think I don’t know that?” I snap. “My dad died trying to give me this life, so don’t talk to me about how I should feel. I didn’t ask for this!”

Her expression morphs, sympathy softening her gaze, and she starts to say something right as Mace appears.

“Enough, Chef. It’s time for you to go.”

She glances at Mace, face scrunching. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re apologizing to the wrong person,” he says, tone firm.

Her attention shifts to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

My eyes are burning. I can’t look at her right now.

Releasing a soft breath, she excuses herself. Mace takes his seat, watching me as the sounds of Chef gathering her things filter over to the dining table. She softly shuts the front door when she departs.

“Let’s eat,” Mace says.

“That’s all you have to say?”

He picks up the bowl full of prepared pasta. “What do you expect me to say?”

Frustration holds my chest in a vise grip. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, distant or whatever. You—” I cut off before I say something embarrassing, like you left me. Sure, he’s been here, but not in the same way as before. Definitely not like the night he asked me twenty-one questions .

“Did you miss me?” he asks, standing and coming to give me a generous serving of the food.

Clenching my jaw, I ignore the ripple of goose bumps running down my arm at his proximity. There’s no way I’m answering that question.

“Right. Didn’t think so.” He returns to his side of the table and serves himself. Once he has a full plate, his gaze strays to mine. “You should eat.”

“Now you want to boss me around?”

“You’re hungry, right?”

“That’s not the point.”

He fills his fork. “That’s exactly the point. You’re hungry, so you should eat.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Smirking, he takes a bite, eyes darkening as he watches me. Mace is really starting to piss me off, and the anger burning in my chest scares me a little bit. I wait for a response, but he simply swallows, lifts an eyebrow, and points at my plate.

“Eat.”

I grab my fork, stab it into my pasta, and shove a forkful into my mouth. Fuck. Me. Chef might be a bit of a hard-ass, but the woman knows how to cook. This might be the best Bolognese I’ve ever tasted. Rich. Creamy. Savory with touches of sweetness.

“Good girl.”

Scowling, I flip him off. My hunger overrides my desire to fight with him, and I focus my energy on the food. The breadsticks are literally perfection; garlic dust coats my fingers and complements the main dish in the best way. I should apologize for snapping at Chef.

Mace finishes eating before I do, and he drinks his wine, watching me with an annoying tilt to his lips. He’s an idiot if he thinks I’m done being mad. I take my final bite and lean back in my chair, drumming my fingers on the arm.

His eyes move to my tapping fingers. “More to say?”

Now that I’ve eaten, the anger isn’t so intense, but it simmers beneath the surface, poised and read to boil over. “For someone so smart, you’re clueless when it comes to women.”

“Is that so?”

I nod, grabbing my glass of wine. “You fuck me at Rose’s house. Have me warm your cock. Finger me in your office. Then barely speak to me for a week. You’re not even texting me anymore.”

“So, you did miss me,” he teases.

Oh my god. This asshole. “This isn’t a joke, Mace.” Taking a big drink, I stand, set the glass down and throw my napkin across the table. It unceremoniously flutters before dropping in front of his plate.” You don’t get to use me as you please. I’m not a fucking toy.”

As soon as the words are out, I realize what’s been bothering me the most. Mace’s praise and touch made me feel good.

I liked it. He promised to keep me company.

He worshiped my body like no one ever has, but it was so easy for him to simply stop.

I don’t like that I missed it or that he’s not taking this seriously.

It makes me feel stupid. Like all those assholes in the comments of that NYC Socialite article were right.

Mace stares at the napkin. “Who said you were a toy?”

“Like you even care,” I growl, whirling around and heading out of the dining room.

“Cassia, come here.” His deep tone strokes down my spine, coaxing.

“No.”

“Cassia— ”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” I call over my shoulder.

“See what happens if you leave,” he warns, voice deep and rumbling.

Scoffing, I shake my head and take the first step out of the room. “Oh no, what are you going to do? You think being alone bothers me?” I pause and glare at him. “I’ve been alone for most of my adult life.”

He stands.

My pulse jumps. “Don’t even think about it.”

Those dimples deepen as he steps toward me. “Why? Isn’t that what you want?”

Yes.

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” I lie, leaving before I embarrass myself.

His footsteps are soft against the rug. “I told you not to walk away from me.”

Yeah, well, I told him to go fuck himself and look at how well he listened.

I quicken my pace, hitting the stairs and jogging up them.

My heart thuds as Mace closes in, his presence like shadows chasing me deeper into the night, and even though I know it’s a bad idea to flee into the dark woods, I run straight toward them.

I make it to the second floor before his arms band around my waist.

Air whooshes out of my lungs, my heart rate spiking and fluttering. The stupidest thing of all is, I’m not afraid of our precarious position or that we could tumble down the stairs. Mace ripping away my control sends a tremble of excitement rushing through my veins.

“Let me go,” I demand.

“No, baby. I’m going to fuck this attitude out of you.”

“I’ll kill you.” My words are all lies, but I don’t know how to admit that he’s right without sacrificing my dignity.

“You might,” he says, dropping me to my feet in the middle of the mezzanine, his arms still pinning me to his chest. “But I’d die happy buried in your cunt.”

A riot of heat swoops to my core, and my walls clench, desperate to feel him inside of me. I’m seriously messed up.

“Hands on the railing,” he demands.

Reaching forward and bending at the hip, I slap my palms on the wooden rail, glaring at him over my shoulder. “Happy?” My ass brushes against his hardened length. Anticipation warms me from head to toe.

Mace’s gaze bores into mine. “No.” He yanks my shorts and thong down with one rough tug. The fabric drags over my skin, but delight whispers up my spine. Mace smooths his palms over my ass. “Tell me to stop if you don’t want this.”

Damn him. Why couldn’t he be heartless? My lips press together, and approval glitters in his gaze.

The bastard knows he has me. He uses one hand to undo his belt buckle and pull it off.

In the next second, his pants and boxers are falling down his legs, and I peruse his body.

His cock is hard as a rock and the lighting glints off his piercings.

“I’m not going to be gentle tonight,” he murmurs, slipping one hand between my legs and teasing my wetness. “That’s not what you need, though, is it?” He pinches my clit.

“Fuck you!” I lurch toward the railing and he chuckles.

“No, baby, I’m going to fuck you .” He kicks my ankles open, and I gasp. The tip of his cock presses against my entrance. “Hold on.”

My fingers tighten around the wood. He buries himself balls deep in the first thrust. A throaty cry tumbles out of me, the girth of him stretching me, pushing me to my limits. The piercings ribbing his length are the cherry on top of the perfect sundae. He feels so fucking good.

“You’re so wet for me, Cassia,” he says, pulling all the way out and thrusting deep again. “I thought you hated me? Isn’t that what you always say?”

“I do,” I tell him, grinding my teeth.

“No, you don’t,” he says, grinding into me and leaning forward to slap one of my tits. It sways, and sensations ricochet through my chest. It should be painful.

It’s not.

“Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to fuck me?” I demand.