Phantom: Her Ruthless Villain (Ruthless Triad 5)

Rage boiled inside of him, corroding his bones like acid. And he hurled the food he’d so carefully plated a few minutes ago into the wall.

9

OLIVIA

A wave of frustration rolled through me when I woke up hot and alone on Thanksgiving morning—hot even though a glance at my phone told me that it was only thirty degrees outside. Hot and very, very bothered.

I always slumbered on my back. But that morning, I awoke face down, my breasts tender and my pussy swollen and achy because I’d been grinding myself against the bed while I’d slept. There was also a suspicious slippery sensation between my legs. Not again….

I turned over, and sure enough, there was a wet spot on the front of the gorgeous white Josie Natori silk nightgown my mother had gifted me last Christmas. Which meant I’d have to change before going down to breakfast.

I’d hope coming home for Thanksgiving would maybe mitigate what had become a daily problem before I left New York. But no, here I was in the elegant French country guest room my mother had assigned me after she’d been forced to downsize to a six-bedroom house in Harrod’s Creek after the divorce. Throbbing with memories of the sex I’d had on my birthday.

If I were back in Manhattan, I’d roll out of bed, rush off to work, knowing that my state of constant motion would make it go away. But I’m not at home. I’m in Kentucky, facing down a boring Thanksgiving day with my mother, sister, and her eerily perfect kids.

I couldn’t go downstairs in this state.

So I closed my eyes on the petite chandelier hanging above the foot of my bed and imagine him…

It was one night. Just one night.

But the details came back to me crazy fast. His heavy body on top of mine, his thick waist forcing my legs apart as he rode me. The space adventure I’d taken that fifth and final time.

I’d woken up that morning, slick with arousal too. And even though he’d sent me a clear message by being gone when I awakened, I’d almost humiliated myself for him.

I’d considered lingering at his apartment until he came back. Asking for more birthday sex, even though my birthday had technically passed at that point.

But in the end, I managed it. I gathered up my remaining scraps of pride and cobbled them together into an appropriate thank you note full of the breezy good cheer I imagined normal women exhibited when a one-night stand was over.

So I saved my pride. But for some reason, my body hadn’t gotten the memo about needing to get over the guy who’d obviously wanted me gone the following day.

I bit my lip, and waves of humiliation rolled over me as I continued to imagine him despite how our one-night stand ended. And the orgasm I had envisioning him between my legs was ten times more powerful than the ones I’d been able to give myself before sex with Phantom.

So, I felt somewhat if not completely satisfied when I made my way down to the breakfast nook just as Minerva, my mother’s long-time black housekeeper, was setting out platters of buttermilk biscuits, country ham, eggs, and fried potatoes.

“There you are,” she said, beaming when I walked into the breakfast nook. “I missed you when you got in last night. But I knew you’d be the first one up like always. You been keeping busy up in that big city of yours, ain'tcha?”

“Sure have.” I’d never quite managed to shake my accent like so many of the southern belles who moved to New York. And it always started coming in thicker when I talked to Minerva. “But how are you doing? I can’t believe your great-grandniece is growing up so fast when you keep getting younger as far as I can tell.”

“Oh!” Minerva preened. “You know this witchy face cream keeps it plump, tight, and uncracked.”

Unfortunately, she said that just as my older sister, Skylar, came walking in with her two blond children trotting behind them like show ponies and her husband, Clement bringing up the rear.

Skylar and Mama squabbled like only two people who were way too much alike could. But for some reason, Skylar had moved into the house right next door to Mama and came over fully dressed for breakfast every day. After two decades of not living under the same roof, I couldn’t even imagine Skylar wearing a pair of sweatpants or—gasp and scandal—pajamas out of the house.

“I’m aware you’re just kidding with your witch jokes, Minerva, and you know I don’t mind because I love you like a second mama,” Skylar stopped to say as the rest of her family continued on to the eight-person table. “But please keep in mind the children take things very seriously. They might not understand that you’re just having a bit of fun.”