Page 5 of Dirty Grovel

And the most embarrassing.

The whole reason I’d sworn off women is because I wanted to take love and desire out of the equation.

Not that I love Sutton Palmer. Far from it. Idesireher, true. But desire can easily be sated. It’s the intrigue that sneaks under your skin like tattoo ink.

But if it was only desire, this would all be easily extinguished. It can’t be just that—because no matter how hard I try to eradicate her from my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment…

Sutton keeps finding a way back in.

“Is there something you want us to do, boss?” Vlad asks. “I can send someone in to confiscate the phone.”

No. If anyone’s going to be doing the confiscating, it’s me.

“I’ll handle it,” I growl, stalking back to the state room as my anger spikes.

Who the fuck is she contacting? If it’s that fucker, Drew, I just might have to burn the whole yacht down around our heads.

The fact that that feels like a viable option makes me realize just how deep Sutton has managed to infect me. I’m gonna need another round of third-degree burns before I manage to get her back out again.

I storm into the stateroom and bang my fist against the door. She cries out something, but I’m too far gone to actually hear her.

I’ll do her the courtesy of listening, just as soon as she does me the courtesy of opening the door. And since that’s not going to happen?—

BANG!

I smash my fist into the door for a second time. It’s already on its last legs; one more hit will finish the job.

BANG!

The door bursts inward on its hinges, hitting the marble tub with a resounding crash. I don’t have time to think straight before something large comes hurtling at my face.

I have just enough wherewithal to duck to the right, causing the object to sail past my face and shatter on the ground a few feet behind me.

I glance behind my shoulder.

Crystal.

She means business.

I step into the bathroom and she flails backwards, slips, and collapses on her ass. Crawling back on her hands and feet, she cowers against the tub, shivering as though I’m pointing a gun at her.

God, she’s a sight.

Her clothes are filthy, her face badly bruised, her hair sweaty and matted against her face.

“Sutton…”

She flinches at the sound of her name, taking pains to cover her face with her hair.

But it doesn’t matter—I’ve already seen the violent bruise painting one side of her face. It’s almost enough to match the scars on mine.

“Who gave you that bruise?” I demand, pretending I don’t know the answer.

“Why do you care?”

Gritting my teeth, I squat down in front of her. “I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Well, you’re out of luck because I have nothing to say to you.”

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