From author Parker S. Huntington comes a sizzling new enemies-to-lovers romance full of revenge and a dash of fate, and I have an excerpt for you.
She shot up from her crouch and pushed me, putting all her weight into the effort. A kitten who’d mistaken herself for a tiger.
My phone clattered to the floor between us, but I planted my feet, not budging an inch, even when her tiny fingers flexed against the hard ridges of my pecs and her tits delivered her rapid heartbeats onto my abs.
They fluttered like hummingbird wings across my skin, sending goosebumps up and down my arms. Her scent repelled and lured me. I leaned forward when I should have leaned back.
I wanted to fuck with her.
I wanted to fuck her.
I couldn’t do one, so I settled for the other.
Stepping into her touch, I reveled in the sound of her breath catching as I whispered against her ear, my lips touching the delicate curve, “Faking a panic attack is not cute attention-seeking behavior.”
Pulling back, my body hit the wall and my hip brushed against her pinched waist at the movement, conjuring a breathy gasp.
“Word of advice,” I drawled. Slow. The speed you’d use on someone just learning English. “If that’s how you sound after sex, I suggest cardio.”
The words made me as much of a liar as the Winthrops.
Her hands still sat on my chest, clenched around the shirt fabric, breaths coming out in quick pants.
She sounded like sex.
Reeked of sex.
Moved like sex.
The last thought I needed was of Emery and cardio with the memory of her riding me branded on my brain.
Tiny nails grazed my pecs. Her hips rolled forward, unaware my eyes had adjusted to the dark half an hour ago as she sought something I’d never willingly give her. She had to steal it from me. Rob me.
A little thief.
Like her father.
“I hate you,” she whispered.
That’s okay, little Tiger. I hate you, too.
And if she ever asked for forgiveness, I’d throw her pleas back in her face and ruin her life for sport.
Her family killed my father. It might as well have been tattooed onto my flesh, because I would never forget it. I would never forgive it.
I pressed a pointer finger to her forehead and pushed until she took the hint and stepped back with the attitude of an unfed dog. “You don’t know me, sweetheart.”
She laughed, lazy, psychotic, maddening. It was the kind of ceaseless laughter that didn’t have a beginning or an end. Just noise. Raucous. Unhinged. Worthy of a horror movie soundtrack.
She’d lost it.
Emery Winthrop had finally lost it.
She reminded me of a cornered predator, ready to lash out, desperate to differentiate herself from the Virginia 2.0 her mother demanded her to be.
It made her wild. Reckless. Foolish.
So, so foolish.
“I know your type.” She swiped at my finger, swatting it to the side. Her dress bowed forward, unzipped, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Not just rich but wealthy.”
The word spat out like a curse. She edged herself onto my phone, drove her heel into the screen, and twisted until it cracked, a kaleidoscope of reds, greens, and blues that did nothing but light up the Converse she wore beneath her floor-length gown.
“Handsome.” Another word she’d turned into a curse. “Over-privileged. You think you’re better than everyone else, that you can do whatever you please and get away with it. You disgust me.”
It wasn’t lost on me that her description suited her dad. I didn’t tell her this, though, because doing so would reveal my identity. I unveiled a saccharine smile she couldn’t see and laughed. Loud. In her face. Spearmint caressing her skin.
She could enjoy her pretty, perfect world a little while longer. Soon enough, everything she owned would be mine. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her future in the palm of my hands. I was hard at the idea of revenge.
Beneath us, my phone sputtered out. Dead. Another casualty to the Winthrop name.