Page 21 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

Bryce

Booming music throbs, the rapid beats pounding through me. A sea of people below jump and sway to the vibrant tune, lost in the music, alcohol and drugs.

The VIP lounge on the upper level isn’t as crowded. Z serves the best liquor and has the hottest chicks. I need a little break and distance after what happened this morning.

Josh’s already got a couple of girls with him. Probably going to take one to a hotel nearby if he “feels the necessary chemistry.” I, on the other hand, feel nothing as I survey the women gyrating around the club.

Damn it . I run a hand over my face roughly. I told Fiona to wear something sexy tonight. What will it be? Something so hot it makes my blood boil? Something so plain and boring that I might just laugh at her defiance? Or maybe nothing at all just because I ordered her to wear something.

Even as my body tightens with anticipation, I stay put. I’m not confident I won’t lose control. And control is everything when you’re dealing with somebody as treacherous and beautiful as Fiona Oberman.

A redhead next to me places a hand on my thigh, pressing her tits against my arm. The low cut of her tight black dress leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Not at all like the practically nun-like outfit Fiona wore when she came to beg for money.

Then there were the garter belt and stockings from yesterday…

And my old shirt this morning. Damn it, it was supposed to look like a worn-out sack of potatoes over her with holes. Instead, it was so thin I could see the outlines of her nipples.

I could almost hear her panting and moaning my name. “Bryce, please. Please, I need more.”

I wanted her out of the shirt instantly, but when I unthinkingly told her to take it off, she crossed her arms like I was some kind of pervert.

If she hadn’t crossed her arms, I might’ve yanked the shirt over her head myself. Then knotted it, trapping her arms above her head, and sucked her nipples…

Or I might’ve just pushed her to her knees and filled her insolent mouth with my cock. I was so tempted when she pressed that ten-dollar bill against my lips.

But there was a hint of naked vulnerability underneath the daring attitude, so I backed down.

I shouldn’t have. All I’ve been thinking about at work is her. Her voice. The way she smells—all sweet and female with my soap over her. Her softness. Those small but sensitive breasts and that amazing pussy I can never get enough of.

Even as I focus on her body, regret seeps through.

All that’s supposed to be left between us is my unresolved need for her body.

I shouldn’t have bought the cereal and milk last night when I realized she was staying.

Shouldn’t have tried to kiss her after that immensely satisfying orgasm or asked for one in the morning, like some lovesick idiot.

None of our intimacy from before remains now.

Hell, it wasn’t even real back then. The only one who cared was me.

I was the fool who believed it was love, when she was just playing a game.

The idea is infuriating and humiliating. I hate myself for not being able to move past it, as though I’m walking away from an unfinished story. Whatever was between me and Fiona ended with her betrayal—why hasn’t my heart gotten the memo?

Love isn’t real. Deceptions are a dime a dozen.

The time when we held each other and whispered sweet nothings and laughed and kissed and lost ourselves in each other is over.

I mourn it because it was beautiful. But I should know better.

Lovely moments don’t last. They always end before you’re ready, and they leave deep scars.

But scars do eventually heal. The ones Mom left are scabbed over. The ones from Fiona will mend, too. I’ll make sure of it.

When I glance down at the slim, well-manicured hand, the redhead glides it upward leisurely, but with a clearly seductive intention. She knows the score, and she’s just looking for a good time, nothing more.

Part of me wants it, needing something—anything—to push Fiona out of my head. Another part recoils at another woman’s touch.

Right now, the latter is winning—my dick lies inert. Bastard.

“You’re so tense,” the redhead says into my ear. Her moist breath feels sticky and unpleasant, but I let her continue. Her eyes drop to the untouched whiskey in front of me. “Why don’t you have a drink? Take the edge off?”

“I’m a tequila fan.” A lie, but I don’t want to touch anything when I’m not sure about the chain of custody.

Anybody could’ve slipped something into the drink.

Mom’s side of the family—the criminal side—loves to drug people.

Her brother Harvey once put something in Ares’s whiskey to try to get him to work for the mob as their legal counsel.

Perhaps I’m being overly paranoid, but I’d rather be careful than regret it later.

Mom, Harvey… I wouldn’t put anything past those two—or anybody from the Dunkels.

My maternal grandfather, the Nesovian crime lord Vincent, is sick, and Mom and Harvey are fighting to take control of “the family business.” Supposedly, Vincent said he’d hand over control to whomever could bring his grandsons to see him before he croaked.

I hope he dies alone and miserable, and before he can put anybody in charge of his pathetic criminal enterprise.

In a just world it will fall apart from internal strife—maybe even a civil war.

If he’d agreed to put Mom in prison for what she did to us, I might’ve gone on my own to see him.

But Vincent cared more about the optics of being a strong crime boss who protects his daughter than making her pay for her crimes.

He doesn’t get to act like a loving grandfather now, after all these years, without an apology. But I already know what he’d say: I love you, my boy. I did it for you .

Whatever. Too little, too late.

The redhead makes a soft humming noise. “I bet I can make you learn to love whiskey. You just have to have it right.” She takes a sip of the amber liquid, then cups my cheek and presses her mouth against mine.

She pushes the fiery whiskey past my lips.

I swallow reflexively, then shove her away.

Her tongue is too invasive, and feels nasty in my mouth, like an overgrown slug. It leaves my blood cold.

She laughs. “Oh my God, don’t tell me you’re a prude. I don’t believe you came here to just sit and watch.”

I say nothing as the warmth from the liquor spreads. The sensation is a bit disturbing. It was only a mouthful, and my tolerance is high.

“I like you.” She smiles at me like I’m the last piece of chocolate left in the display case. “Why don’t we go somewhere? Let me make you feel good?”

She pulls me up, and amazingly enough I find myself standing. The girl’s smile widens. I glance back at Josh, but he’s occupied, probably testing for a soul-mate bond with a woman whose name he won’t remember tomorrow.

The redhead and I step out of the VIP lounge, where the deafening music pounds us with near-physical force. The pulsing of the beat makes my head spin. What the hell?

“I’ve got you,” she says when I sway a little. “Just lean on me. I’m much stronger than I look.”

Prickling sensations spread through my body.

Heat starts in my belly and expands. My skin feels too tight.

The air seems to thin, and I yank at my tie, undoing the knot and pulling it down.

But that isn’t enough. My collar is suffocating.

I unbutton the top button, then drag in more air.

Still not enough. My vision blurs for a second.

“Are you okay? Let’s go outside,” she says.

Great idea. Outside means more air.

We burst out of the club. The cool, slightly smoggy air hits my face, but somehow my lungs can’t haul in enough oxygen. The heat from my belly spreads everywhere, even to my face. My cheeks burn, and my fingers feel shaky.

The streetlights are hazy halos against the dark of the sky. I turn to the redhead. “It’s foggy.”

“What is?” she says as she continues to lead me away.

My head feels like it’s been shoved under water and time seems to slow. But my body burns, and my cock is so swollen, it hurts. Electric sparks sizzle in my veins. I feel like I’m going to die if I can’t ram my dick into a warm pussy—any pussy.

A small alarm bell goes off in my head. This…isn’t like me at all . Unlike Josh, I don’t screw indiscriminately.

I’m drugged .

The whiskey. I didn’t think it would be drugged, since she drank from the same glass, but she might have taken an antidote beforehand.

Only two people in my life would do something like this—Mom or her brother Harvey. My eyes cut to the redhead. Who does she work for? What’s her next move?

Where is she taking me?

Red drags me into a dimly lit space. I stare at her. “Where the hell are we?”

“The presidential suite at the Aylster. I want to splurge.” She says it in a nasal, whiny voice she undoubtedly thinks sounds sexy.

I squint, trying to focus, but her face is a little too blurry. The gears in my head turn sluggishly, like they did when Mom fed me and my brothers drug-laced cookies before attempting to kidnap all of us. The similarity is eerie.

“We’re going to make each other feel good.” Red runs her tongue over her lips. The gesture looks like something out of a third-rate porn movie shot by a first-time production company.

Not like what Mom gave me . It’s much worse. My cock twitches. The heat in my blood is unbearable. I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.

Every nerve screams for relief. Am I going to spontaneously combust? But giving in would be surrendering to the manipulation. Nobody gets to play me . “What did you feed me?”

“What, the whiskey?” She smiles. “You tasted it.”

Her mock-innocent answer is suddenly infuriating. The long-buried frustration, guilt and recrimination over my childhood helplessness pound through my veins, and I explode, shoving her roughly. “Don’t lie to me!”