Page 8 of Vicious Little Snakes

My hips roll, the sides of my ass indenting, picturing her laid out, legs spread and begging for my cock.

“Wider,” I whisper, eyes closed, drunk on my fantasy, imagining she’s running her tongue across those pouty lips ready to suck me off.

The end of the song drags out over the speakers, but it could be Jauz’s “Baby Shark” playing because, at this point, I can’t hear anything except my own panting.

I lower my head, letting the water bead down my back. The veins in my forearm swell as I pull faster, teeth grinding, while mentally fucking Caroline Whitmore’s perfect mouth. Goddamn, I want to feel every fucking inch of her. Fill every single hole and watch her come undone.

My chest begins to burn from the breath I’ve been holding as I chase my release. Defined lines in my six-pack deepen in an intense moment, feeling my balls draw up before my whole-body shudders and “yes” hisses between my teeth accompanied by warm cum shooting up onto my tan skin.

Collapsing my cheek onto the cold tile wall, I lazily wipe at my stomach, removing the evidence of my obsession.

“Sex and candy,” I breathe out heavily. “You’re fucking Sex. And. Candy.”

Caroline

“I’m starving. What’s for breakfast?”

Grey’s voice is too chipper for a Monday morning. But that’s my faux brother. Everything about Grey is larger than life—even the way he walks into a room.

“A little decorum,” I snark. “It’s Monday morning. Please act accordingly.”

He laughs, plopping down into the chair next to me at the Versailles-inspired dining table. Maeve, a relatively new addition to the staff, places a gold-rimmed coffee cup down next to Grey, the steam rising off in wisps.

“Tea not your thing?” I grin as Maeve walks away.

He deadpans, not answering before looking over the newspapers, artfully arranged on the table. I lift my teacup, hearing it rattle the saucer before bringing it to my lips.

Grey’s not looking at me as he questions, “So little step-monster, what can I expect this weekend?”

I know what he’s asking, but I answer sarcastically anyway.

“Expect? Oh, for everyone to adore me and ultimately decide that it’s me they worship, and you’re no longer required to show your face. Is that what you’re after?”

He smirks, rustling theNew York Post, opening it to check Page Six. “Not quite.”

I watch him let out a heavy breath, probably relieved not to see his name for once. Last week’s drama hasn’t made anything easy for any of us.

Grey picks up his fork, stabbing the sausage on his plate, like a Neanderthal, and shoves it into his mouth, but it’s hot, so he says, “Paparazzi?” while chewing fast.

I smile but say, “Eww. Chew your food first. With your mouth closed.” The humor behind his eyes isn’t unnoticed as I continue, “But yes, only out front. Not inside.”

He nods, wiping his mouth and swallows, taking a drink of his coffee then adding, “Cell phones?”

I let out an exasperated breath, even though I’m not.

“Taken at the door. Is this some kind of test to rule out that I’m not an amateur? I’m offended.”

Grey sits back in his seat and runs his hand through his boyishly tousled hair. He looks stressed, so I stop playing around, placing my cup down, and lean in.

“I took care of everything, Grey. Not one single photo will release showing you and Donovan together. Frankly, I expect people to stay focused on me for my birthday. But I’ve got your back. Nothing will stop you from signing those papers next week and being New York’s youngest tyrant billionaire. Least of all the rightfully deserved beating Paul received.”

After Grey went nuts, there were just too many videos and witnesses to keep it quiet. To her credit, Donovan’s plan was genius. And although a few Instagram videos popped up here and there, anyone that mattered—people that could give the story wings—kept their collective mouths shut. Because that’s how this world works, the same rule that let Paul become a monster keeps Grey safe: never bite the hand that feeds you.

Power is the only real currency in life. And people like Grey, Liam, Donovan—me, we have that in spades. But to stay off the radar and not play Russian roulette with a multibillion-dollar company, he and Donovan have to lay low another week.

He stares at me, deep in thought. And I swear I can read them. We may not be blood, but Grey and I are cut from the same cloth.

“Stop looking for holes. You’d think you’d have found enough, seeing as how you spend all your time with your Cherry. Plus, I’ve been saving your brawling ass since we were twelve. It’s going to be fine.”