Page 34 of Sugar (Gilded #1)

Both

MADDIE

C omfy bed, check.

Darkened room, check.

Smell of smoky cologne, ch ? —

Wait.

Nope.

That’s a new one.

My lids shot open, and I confirmed what my sleepy subconscious already knew.

I wasn’t at my apartment. I was at Easton’s.

I’d slept with him. In his bed. At his exceedingly swanky but unspeakably boring house—though I had a vague memory of speaking that last part to his face.

Where he’d also kissed me before eating me like I contained the sustenance he needed to survive.

I was tempted to yank the blankets higher, but I had the distinct feeling that it was already embarrassingly late. And the even more distinct reminder that I’d fallen asleep the night before without brushing my teeth.

Thankfully, Easton wasn’t in bed with me to get scared away by my morning breath, and I didn’t linger in bed and risk that fact changing.

I hurried into the bathroom to pee, wash my hands and the smeared makeup from my face, and brush my teeth with the vigilance of someone who was hoping to be kissed.

Preferably multiple times.

As I put in a valiant effort toward presentability, my mind replayed the night over and over like a sports broadcast covering the highlight reel. Despite the nervous energy twisting in my stomach, I couldn’t stop smiling.

I left the bathroom, ready to search out my missing panties before searching out Easton.

I didn’t have to go far.

The panties were nowhere to be found.

But on the other side of the expansive room, Easton stood stiffly in the doorway. I’d never seen him in anything other than a suit. The most casual I ever saw him was when he ditched his jacket and rolled his sleeves.

He looked insanely good dressed in those tailored suits.

He looked somehow even better in a pair of loose, worn basketball shorts. His tee was the same as the one I wore, but in dark gray instead of white. And unlike the way it fit me like a mini dress, the buttery cotton seemed to strain to accommodate his broad shoulders and impressive biceps.

His hotness was nearly enough to distract me, but I knew something was up even before he said, “Something’s been bothering me, Madeline.”

The bubbling giddiness that’d already started to dissipate at the intensity of his stare turned flatter than an opened Diet Coke at his tone.

“Okay,” I said when he just continued to study me in that disconcerting way. The one that had every embarrassing confession rushing to burst free.

“I checked my bank.”

Now I’m really lost.

My brows lowered as I repeated a drawled, “Oookay?”

“You haven’t used the card. Not once. Not even for a damn cup of coffee.”

“You send me one every day. The café tastes like crap comparatively.”

“Madeline.” That one word made it clear it wasn’t about the drink.

I lifted a shoulder and told the truth. “I don’t buy much.”

“Bullshit. You went to that juice bar with Greer three times in the last week alone.”

I reared back. “How did you know that?”

Not that it bothered me. I usually blabbed every inane detail of my life to him because I was born to yap. I wasn’t even alarmed by the possible stalking because I was also apparently born messed up in the head.

I was more horrified by the fact I’d been oblivious to it.

“Greer tags you on Instagram,” he shared, something that made way more sense than him somehow following me. “Same with your weekly French toast and mimosa outings.”

So no physical stalking.

Just the cyber kind.

Greer really needs to stop documenting my predictability.

“I thought you didn’t have social media,” I pointed out.

“I don’t. I can still see your profile.”

I didn’t have to ask why he was looking at an app he didn’t even have an account for.

Thorough.

“I thought you signed up for the auction for the money.” He took a step closer. “Then I thought you weren’t spending it because you felt guilty. But you don’t need it. Do you?”

Oh shit, he’s mad. He told me about attending Coastal because they offered the best scholarship. About growing up in a crappy neighborhood. He assumed my participation was about financial desperation and not a very different kind.

Now he feels duped, and he’s mad.

“I told you that I didn’t,” I reminded him. “I tried to give your card back. I said you didn’t have to buy me anything. And I’ll pay you back if you?—”

“The fuck you will.” He took another step. “I want to know why you auctioned yourself off when it was never about the money.”

Oh no.

I’d almost rather he was pissed.

I gave a half-assed shrug and an even half-assier answer. “It seemed interesting.”

Another step. “Why?”

“It just did.”

And another. “Tell me.”

Despite his firm tone that usually made me obey, I kept my lips pressed together.

He closed the last bit of distance between us, but it wasn’t enough. His hand spanned my side, and he backed me against the wall. “Want to hear my theory?”

I didn’t.

But only because I had no doubt it was correct.

“See, Madeline, I was sitting down in my office, looking for any distraction to stop myself from storming up the stairs and waking you by slamming into your tight little pussy.” The cruel smirk that curved his mouth proved again how well he read me.

“At the time, I was thinking about how I needed to give you time. Take things slow. How important it was that I didn’t scare you off.

But you aren’t scared.” He lifted his hand from my waist to curve around my throat before he used his thumb to force my face up. “Are you?”

I didn’t speak. Not because I was afraid to answer, but because I couldn’t make my mouth work.

Not that it mattered. Easton must’ve decided that he would rather confirm his theory himself.

Releasing my neck, he put his palm to the wall above my head to prop himself up as he reached his other hand lower.

His fingertips skimmed up my leg. He didn’t even need to touch my core to encounter the arousal that was coating my inner thighs—and reminding me that I hadn’t located my stupid panties.

He skimmed along the slit with barely-there pressure before pausing. “Spread your legs for me.”

When I did so without hesitation, I thought I would be rewarded with more.

It was the opposite.

“Move my hand away,” he ordered.

My chest tightened, and I wanted to disobey. To press myself into him. To clutch him to me.

But there was a challenge in his dark eyes that I couldn’t resist, so I made myself grip his wrist and push his hand from my body.

Grudgingly.

“Is this what you were looking for?” He lowered his face until it was all I could see. “For someone to tell you what to do?”

Oh hell.

He finally cupped my sex. “To submit to them so fucking beautifully?”

Oh fucking hell.

His thick finger speared into me, and his harsh curse mixed with my choked whimper. He finger fucked me as he ground his palm against my clit until the obscene sound of my slick arousal mixed with my heavy pants.

My thighs trembled as the edge approached at breakneck speed. I could hardly fill my lungs.

What little breath I managed to get in whooshed out in a distressed cry when he callously stole his touch away.

I didn’t have the chance to decide whether to beg or wait patiently. His hand returned immediately, and his skilled fingers quickly brought me back to the edge.

And when I was just about to fall, I was violently yanked from the precipice when he stopped.

Again.

His voice was a rough rumble as he started the torment anew. “Am I right, Madeline?”

“No. Yes.”

“Which is it?”

“Both.” A whimpered plea followed when he curved his finger. “ Please .”

“How can it be both?” He started to slide out of me, and desperation overcame ego.

The words spewed out in a rush as I spoke the truth out loud for the first time. “You’re right that I wanted to submit to someone, but you’re also wrong that it wasn’t about the money. It was. Or rather what it stood for. I wanted to be bought. To be desired and used and at someone’s mercy.”

I’d hoped that flaying myself open and sharing with a brutal honesty—one that I would likely regret—would be enough to earn the orgasm he held just out of reach.

But I was wrong.

Devastatingly wrong .

Instead of giving me more of the touch I craved, he took it away. His finger left me achingly empty as he stood upright. His gaze was sharp as he stared down at me, and I braced for rejection.

Scorn.

Ridicule.

I waited for the one man who I thought might understand to confirm what I knew in my head.

That I was wrong.

Devastatingly.

Fucking.

Wrong .

“That’s not what I offered you, Madeline.”

No amount of mental preparation could’ve lessened the mortification of him rebuffing me by reiterating our terms. His words echoed through my head like jagged blades that eviscerated my insides.

I gathered every ounce of pride I had to hide my raw reaction. I wasn’t sure how successful I was, so I kept my unseeing eyes aimed at his chest and was relieved when my voice came out even. “I know.”

“Yet you didn’t go back into the main room in search of what you were looking for. And you would’ve found it. So fucking easily.”

At the indecipherable edge to his words, I tentatively raised my eyes to meet his.

“You took my offer instead.” Every inch of his body seemed rigid, like it was etched from marble. His fists clenched at his sides. “Why?”

“You know why,” I mumbled, my cheeks flaming hot and red.

The real question is why did my dumbass have to be attracted to a perceptive and frustratingly good lawyer?

“I need to hear it. Why didn’t you ask to be re-auctioned? Or even go back to Gilded after that? Why did you take my offer when it wasn’t what you wanted?”

At the relentless interrogation that I knew wouldn’t stop without an answer, I blurted, “Because it was you!”

I didn’t have more of a reason, and Easton didn’t require one.