Page 149 of On Edge

“That’s it. My good girl. Take all of my cock in that sweet mouth of yours.”

Troy fucks my face while my father talks loudly, drunk in the next room. Shame and desire entwine into one big, heady rush as I lose myself in the feel of him thrusting between my lips, his hands wrapped in my hair, and a tightening low in my core as he comes in my mouth.

As he tenses and then jerks, filling the back of my throat with his hot release, I swallow it all. And then Troy is dragging me up to kiss him, pushing me against the wall with eye holes in it, shoving my dress up to my waist.

“My turn,” he hisses.

And then he’s on his knees, bringing me to mine with his wicked tongue and carnal teeth.

Troy walksme to the elevator a second time. He seems preoccupied with his phone, and I glance at it to see him typing to someone that he’s on his way. As soon as the doors close, I don’t get off at my floor, instead hitting the lobby button.

There’s a coat closet near the main doors that the staff are coming and going from. When no one’s looking, I slip inside andgrab the nearest dark coat and belt it over my dress. There’s a cap on the hook with it. I shove my hair up under it without thinking, like my hands know what to do even though my mind doesn’t want to think anymore.

And follow him out into the London night. But Troy isn’t outside, and it’s raining heavily, wiping away any evidence he was even here.

The doorman eyes me suspiciously, loitering, so I move away from the hotel. As I walk, heart pounding like I’m doing something illegal, I text Quinn and she replies instantly.

Can you track him now?

On it.

Her reply comes once I’ve hailed a taxi.

nearly.heads.taker

I’m not sure what she means at first, then I realize it’s what3words. I bring it up on the map and show the hackney cab driver the location.

“Ah, I know it, love. Do you want the shortcut, or the scenic route?”

“The quickest way there?”

He grins and turns the cab around, the force of it making me grip the door card handle.

When the rain stops, London emerges from the downpour resembling something out of a Monet painting—all fleeting lights and soft colors reflecting mirror-like on the Thames. We drive over a bridge, and then past St Paul’s gleaming and the illuminated towers of the financial district. Eventually, we pull into Fleet Street, where the buildings are like sleeping giants, closed for the weekend.

The cab drops me off at a dark corner next to a church and a newspaper building. Between the two is an alleyway, grimy in the foul weather.

Through the rain, there’s a tall figure moving with purpose ahead.

Troy?

I pay the fare and follow, keeping to the shadows. My heart thuds so hard along with every click of my heels; he can probably hear me coming.

As he turns down another alley, behind the church, I press myself against the wet brick wall, counting to ten before trying to see around the corner. He’s stopped in front of a building, his profile luminous under the amber streetlights.

It’s Troy.

When he disappears inside, I creep closer. It’s a dilapidated building that looks like it should have been condemned years ago. The faded lettering above the door is barely visible, but I can make out the words:

FLEET STREET BARBERS.

A barber shop.

Why would Troy come here?

There’s a broken window on the side, boarded up but with gaps between the planks to see through. The shop looks like it hasn’t been touched in decades, with an old barber’s chair dead center, made up of cracked leather and rusted chrome. A row of dusty mirrors lines the wall. The interior is so dark; the only light comes from the moon.

Troy is nowhere to be seen.