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And then she sucks me clean with her tongue.
It’s fucking heaven. And I know before morning I’m going to have her every way I can. I’m going to play her hard.
Because this is goodbye.
Tomorrow I’ll be handing her back to her father, and then I’ll never see her again.
TWENTY
dakota
“Are you paying attention?” Harley stares at me, getting really close, her curls bouncing as she does.
I playfully push her away. “For the millionth time, we’re not doing a post about it.”
She flops on my bed in the top floor apartment of our brownstone in the West Eighties where we live. Her father set us up in our own place. Sort of.
I say sort of because he stays in the bottom apartment. Technically, it’s his place, but the second floor is kind of a generic living space because Harley demanded our own place that we could come back to when we’re on break from college. Which we are now for the next month.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Something happened.”
Of course something happened, but I’m not sure how to talk to her about last week or explain those tiny sexual thrills that ripple through me every time Jaxson comes to mind.
He didn’t even hand me over to my father.
Not that my father ever contacted me or made an appearance. No, some other man, tall, gorgeous, cold, impeccably dressed. A man Jaxson called Mercer. And Mercer called him… Orion?
Not to his face, but to me. Or to the air because he said, “Orion’s really landed in the shit this time.”
Orion.
There’s something about the name that fits Jaxson, and I don’t know why.
I let out a slow breath.
Yes, I do. Orion is a constellation, the great hunter, handsome, a giant. That’s about where my knowledge of Greek mythology and astronomy ends. But if someone told me to choose a god for Jaxson, it would be Orion.
I tried to talk to Mercer, to get more information about where Jaxson might be, but he didn’t say much except that Smith would have a security detail on me.
Not that he said Smith. How powerful is this man who’s my birth father… or rather, the DNA donor?
I look at my friend and shake my head. She likes Smith. Romanticizes him. I know Harley had something to do with him getting involved.
“Did you go to Smith?” I ask.
A flush colors her cheeks. “You wouldn’t listen to me. I didn’t know who else to turn to. Dad’s rich, but he’s not… he’s not Smith.”
She has theories about Smith. An international spy like Bond but less rapey is her latest one.
I pull my legs up under me. “I needed a break. I just got sick of all the attention.”
“For our project,” she says.
My fame is something she inadvertently made happen. She loves to film videos and snap pictures of everything, and something about me captured a huge audience.
I’m a flash in the pan, someone who’ll disappear when I get older or the next thing comes along.
I don’t particularly want it, but this kind of fame isn’t regular fame. It just… irritates.
