Page 34 of The Bad Boy Rule

My elbow connects with his ribs, and despite my sudden violence, he simply chuckles like I’ve tickled him, then turns and starts walking toward the entrance.

I catch him with my fingers curling around his thick bicep, halting him. “Wait.”

“I thought you said we’re going to be late?”

Licking my lips, I blow out an exhale, dropping my hand away from him when I realize that I’m still touching his arm. “I need you to take this seriously if we’re going to sell this.”

Slowly, he steps forward until he’s so close that the smell of his bodywash, fresh pine and cedar, surrounds me. “And what makes you think that I’m not taking being yourfakeboyfriend seriously, Golden Girl?” His lips curl around the edges, dark eyes heating until I swear they’re simmering in the depths before he dips his head down to my ear. A wave of goose bumps scatters along my skin when his warm breath caresses the shell of my ear, and I hate that my body reacts to him when my mind wants anything but. “I’m completely dedicated to playing my part, but the question is, areyou?”

Driving his point home, he rubs the tip of his nose down the length of my neck, the ghost of a touch, and my heart feels like it might burst free from my rib cage and fall between us at our feet.

My God.

How am I going to pull this off when every time he’s near, I have heart palpitations just from the filthy things that leave his mouth? Add in proximity that makes my pulse pound, and I feel light-headed, nearly swaying on my four-inch Valentino heels.

“We’re going to be late,” I murmur, my words breathy, barely decipherable. It feels like they don’t even belong to me, my voice no longer my own.

“Then you better get ready to put on an Oscar-worthy performance, Golden Girl.”

SEVENTEEN

SAINT

I feel like a wolf in sheep’s clothing walking into this party. Gala, fucking fundraiser, whatever they’re calling it.

Like I’m stepping into a world I don’t belong to and never will. A world that I fucking hate. These rich people flaunting their money and fancy fucking outfits, trying to hide the fact that deep down, they’re all as fucked-up as the rest of us. They’re just masking it with materialistic shit.

“Okay,” Lennon mutters, seemingly more to herself than me, sucking in a breath so deep her chest moves with it. Her gaze swings to a waiter who’s passing in front of us with a platter of champagne glasses, and her eyes light up as she stops him, quickly swiping a glass off the tray. Obviously, drinking age doesn’t apply to said rich people. “Gonna need this. Want one?”

“Nah, I’m good. Not much of a drinker.”

I couldn’t tell her that I’d rather drown myself than drink a drop of alcohol. The result of having an alcoholic drug addict for a father. I would never touch that shit.

She nods, staying silent as she brings the glass to her plump, red-painted lips and takes a large sip.

I have a pretty good idea of what to expect out of tonight’s charade, but the one thing I didn’t expect?

Her in that goddamn dress. Black satin molded to every inch of her curves that’s making my mouth fucking water. I almost swallowed my tongue the moment I saw her, heat ripping through me when my gaze found the long slit that traveled up her thigh and the red fuck-me heels on her feet that gave her a good extra five inches. She’s still tiny compared to me, head barely reaching my chest, but fuck, her legs go on for days in this dress.

But I wasn’t going to admit that she almost knocked me on my ass tonight. Instead, I opted for “nice dress,” even though I had a litany of other things going through my head.

Like how my dick was hardening behind these stupid pants at the thought of tossing those legs over my shoulders and making her dig those heels into my back until I bled while I devoured her.

Not exactly the kind of thing you lead with instead of hello.

“Shit. There he is,” she mutters with her eyes wide. I follow her gaze across the room to thehein question and see her father. The resemblance between them is uncanny. Same auburn hair, high cheekbones, striking green eyes. He’s dressed like he’s going to the fucking Oscars or some shit, and not just some rich asshole without a moral compass and more money than sense.

I feel her stiffen slightly beside me as she steels her spine, straightening like a warrior preparing for battle, and I do the same.

Not for the reason she’ll think, but because I’m finally meeting the man I’ve spent nearly my entire life hating with every fiber of my being.

Pent-up rage bubbles hotly beneath the surface of my skin, threatening to boil over as I stare at him, laughing without a care in the fucking world. Surrounded by his rich friends, wearinghis expensive fucking suit and watch, living a life that he doesn’t deserve because of the people he’s stepped on to get there.

I flex my fist by my side, curling and uncurling my fingers when they begin to ache.

I want to wrap my hands around his fucking throat and squeeze until that rage is gone, but I push it down, burying it deep beneath the surface, keeping the mask on my face firmly in place. I have to play the long game.

I have to see this through until the very end because if I don’t, then it’ll all be for nothing.

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