Page 67 of Sweetest Revenge

I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to remind him that I hadn’t ridden anything just yet. Even when I threw myself at him, he still rejected me.

What is he waiting for?

If he waited too long, our time would come to an end, and I’d leave without having fucked him even once.

And that bothered me more than I could admit even to myself.

Kiss me, Addi.

His husky command had been playing over and over in my mind. Every time I saw him, I heard it. Every time his hand brushed across my waist.

I wanted it more than anything. Such a simple thing. Just a kiss. But I refused it because of just how intimate it would be.

But now that it had become sort of a forbidden fruit, it felt just that much more consequential.

And I said no.

He never mentioned it. He didn’t throw it in my face. He merely accepted it and moved on.

I should be grateful for it, but instead it had me rethinking everything.

Especially how much I want it. And that maybe he doesn’t. Not anymore.

With a pout, I opened up his laptop. The screen blinked, showing me an all-black wallpaper and the simple login screen. Just as I was about to enter the password, my hands paused over the keyboard.

Shit, I shouldn’t know his password.

I cleared my throat and looked up at him expectantly.

“Don’t act shy now,” he said, his lips twitching. “You weren’t shy when you were holding a knife to my neck.”

Shit. So he did see. There was no going back now.

“A letter opener,” I corrected under my breath and put in my dad’s death date. It was like a punch to the gut. Especially since I now knew who my dad actually was.

Silence fell over us. Warren seemed unaffected and continued to work on his phone while I navigated his computer.

“Why that date?” I asked, unable to keep the question in any longer. “Do you pride yourself on his suicide? Does it make you feel accomplished?”

He looked at me, his gaze turning cold.

“Don’t speak about things you know nothing about,” he hissed.

“He was my father. I think I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He paused, looking at me, then lowered his phone and sat back. His gaze was calculating as it ran over me. Insinuating. I knew he was about to utter something that would probably make this situation a whole lot worse, and I wasn’t exactly ready to hear it.

Not with three hours of sleep. Not with a constant buzz of anxiety over my head.

“How was your chat with Maxwell?” he asked.

“You know how it was.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Damn him.

I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to talk about how he found me. How I fucking cried into his chest as I broke down. And how he let me without saying anything degrading or making fun of me.

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