Page 106 of The Love You Fight For
But then I remember Tiffany. I remember the look on her face when I promised I would bring him down. I remember the stabbing pain I felt when I read over the files Agent Sexton showed me in Chicago.
And then I remember Judge Cartwright.
I steel my spine, push every doubt to the back of my mind, and step over the threshold into his house. Shoulders back. Mask on.Whatever it takes.
I look at him over my shoulder.
“If you show me where your bourbon is, I can make you a drink.”
The smile that spreads over his face is enough to make me almost feel bad for him. I don’t. But I almost do. He leads me through the foyer and into the kitchen before taking me farther into the house.
I’ve never been this far into Ashton’s house before. He’s always cut me off at the kitchen when I drop off his dry cleaning, his groceries, or his latte order. He leads me past a sitting room and a living room. A bathroom. A library. A den.
And then he opens the door to his bedroom.
I blink.
“You keep your alcohol in your bedroom?” I say with a laugh, and he shakes his head while he shrugs out of his suit jacket.
“I thought you could leave your shoes and purse in here.”
He disappears into a closet to hang up his coat, then comes out with the top buttons of his shirt undone and his tie missing.
I suppose I did tell him I wanted him to be comfortable.
He glances at me.
“Well? Take off your shoes, Samantha.”
Without stepping foot into his bedroom, I toe off my heels and nudge them to the side of the door, but I keep my clutch in my hand. When I stand, he’s in front of me. He puts his hand on the small of my back, then slides it to cup my ass. He squeezes it hard, then smirks like he’s won something.
“This way.”
He brushes past me, and I turn and follow. He leads me back past the den, library, and bathroom, then stops in a small sitting room. He grabs a remote and turns on the fireplace, despite it being summer and hot as hell outside. Then he sits down on thesofa, arms draped over the back and legs spread wide. I remain standing.
“The drinks?” I ask.
He gestures back down the hallway.
“There’s a bar cart in my office. Three fingers of bourbon. Use the open one, obviously, and you can make something for yourself as well.”
I nod.
“Be right back.”
I pad down the hallway and go into the den—his office—and straight to the bar cart. I make his drink quickly, making sure to stir until the bourbon is clear and thanking whoever the fuck is watching over me that I’m able to do it without Ashton breathing down my neck.
When I step back into the living room, he’s leering. His eyes are stickier than they were before. He’s shameless as he stares at my cleavage. He even licks his lower lip, and I have to stifle a gag.
Then he sits up and pats the seat cushion next to him, so I hand him the drink and lower myself onto the sofa. He takes a long pull, swallowing back half of the bourbon before setting it on the table in front of him. I can’t help but draw comparisons between this scenario and the one in Chris’s house during the rainstorm. It makes the guilt surge again.
I close my eyes and breathe through it.
I love him.
When I open my eyes, Ashton pounces.
He’s not gentle. There’s no caressing. No tenderness. He bites at my lips, forcing himself onto me, gripping my chest. I turn my head, and he moves to my neck, his hands like pythons between my legs and down my dress.
