Page 10 of Ruthless Mr. Ricco
“Yeah, sure, because rapists are trustworthy,” I spit.
He leans down and lifts my chin with the pad of his finger.The bed dips out from underneath me as he pierces my soul with his hungry eyes.
“Are your breasts sore from my mouth?Is your pussy raw from my cock?Do your bones ache from countless orgasms?”
His deep voice and shameless words sink past my defenses and embed themselves into my psyche.
My insides clench and need throbs low in my abdomen.For the briefest of moments, I want him with every fiber of my being, but then reality crashes down on my head and I shove his hand away from my face.
“You don’t have to be disgusting,” I say.
He chuckles and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear before leaning back on the wall.
“I’m only being honest.Sex with me will be the best night of your life.You won’t forget it so easily,” he says.
I scoff and scoot across the bed, eager to put more distance between us.
“It won’t happen.”
I don’t know if I’m trying to convince him or me.Either way, it doesn’t work.
“Yes it will.You’ll beg me to fuck you,” he says.
His smirk arrows straight to my core.
“In your dreams, asshole,” I snarl.
Hetsksand shakes his head in mock disapproval.
“Is that anyway to talk to your boss?”
“I haven’t signed the papers yet, so you’re not my boss.”
“Ah, but I will be soon.Be careful, Brook.I don’t hold grudges; I get even.Understand?”
All my confidence dries up, but I roll my shoulders back and lift my chin in defiance.
“I understand self-centered assholes like you better than anyone else and willneverbeg you for anything.Once I sign this contract, we’re nothing but coworkers,” I demand.
His smirk widens.Arousal dampens my panties.He runs a well manicured fingertip down the marks on his throat.
“Whatever you say, Miss Prescott.”
My brain splinters.Ice encases my soul.I snatch the folder off the bed, click the pen open, and sign my legal name on the dotted line.
“You’re wrong on so many things, Mr.Ricco, but as my employer, it is, of course, whateveryousay, sir,” I say in a deadpan voice.
After closing the pen and tossing the papers to the edge of the mattress, I slip off the other side of the bed, retreat through the nearest doorway, and shut and lock the door between us.Thank fuck it’s a bathroom because all the movement rockets me into another puke session.I rush to the toilet, but there’s nothing more for my stomach to expel.
I vow to never drink again.
With cotton filling my head and dread pounding in my chest, I turn on the sink, wash my hands, and splash cold water on my face.
It doesn’t help.I take a few sips from my cupped palm before bracing my hands on the counter and hanging my head.
A streak of color on my thigh captures my attention.My heart leaps into my throat until I wiggle my skirt up and realize it’s ketchup, not blood.Mustard and a bit of grease dirty my other knee.
I swallow as I recall the sound of shattering glass as I kicked plates off the table.
