The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

He cups my breast through the white bra, and I flinch away, already knowing what comes next. He told me, didn’t he? He told me how the story went, but still I find it shocking when he presses my nipple between thumb and forefinger, when he sends a bite of pain through my breast.

“I’m not,” I gasp between the first thrust and the second, my eyes shutting tight against the pleasure so sharp it turns to pain. “Not. Not. Not.”

“Not what?” he murmurs, pressing deep for a long moment.

I’m not using him as a Christopher stand-in, at least I don’t think so. And I don’t think he’s using me, either. “I’m not in love with Christopher Bardot.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” A hard thrust. Another. “You keep saying it.”

I don’t know whether he means it literally, but that’s what I do. I say it out loud, over and over. “I’m not in love with… not in love with Christopher… Oh God, Christopher Bardot!”

He finds my clit, merciless with two rough fingers, making me flinch. “Say it again.”

“I’m not,” I sob, but it feels more and more like a lie.

Sutton bites down on my shoulder, and the bright-hot pain is enough to shatter me. A low keening sound fills the room, the sound of my longing, the terrible pleasure I take from it—and behind me, the agonized groan of a man pushed past reason. His hips press against mine, hard enough I have to gasp for breath, my mouth open against the embroidered fabric of the sofa, hands clenching at nothing, his tongue laving the teeth marks he left on my skin.

In the aftermath we collapse in a heap, the sofa giving a slight shift of discomfort under our combined weights. Sutton moves when I’m still boneless, lifting himself off me and turning me over. His hands are gentle as he pulls on my clothes. It’s like he’s mourning something.

“We should talk. Tomorrow at the library. We’ll talk then.”

I stop him, my hand clasping his. “Stay.”

He doesn’t look broken, but I’ve learned that it’s a beautiful facade. The intimacy we shared pulled down the walls, if only for a few seconds. Those calloused hands, so strong and sure with a dangerous horse, they’re shaking. He needs the comfort of welcoming arms as much as I do.

And so I lead him back to the sofa, where we fall into a sudden and boundless sleep, our limbs tangled together, taking solace in a shared desperation.

In my dream there are piles of straw, mountains of it, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t spin them into gold. My fingers are torn up from the attempts, bloodied and raw. There’s a lock on the door and a faint lightening of sky through the bars, which means the king will expect me to be done spinning soon. I’m running out of time.

I wake up with a sudden start, my eyes wide open as I look around the living room. A knock comes at the door, and I realize that must have woken me up. My palms are pressed to a chest as wide and solid as a table, but rising and falling in gentle breaths. Sutton looks up at me, rather adorable in his sleepy state. “You expecting someone?” he says, his voice rusty.

A glance at my phone. Four thirty. In the morning.

I pull open the door, half expecting there to be some kind of overly polite burglar. Who else shows up at four thirty? Christopher Bardot, apparently. He doesn’t even have the grace to look sleepy. Instead he leans casually against the doorjamb, one hand in the pocket of worn gray sweatpants. His white T-shirt looks like it’s been washed a million times and probably feels like heaven. I have no doubt that he stepped out of bed looking like this, which is proof that the universe is fundamentally unfair. My eyes feel bloodshot, the place between my legs sore.

“I hope there’s a bullet wound under that crisp white shirt,” I tell him, my voice dark with exhausted aggravation. “Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d be here at this time.”

“We have to talk.”

“About the meaning of life? About the birds and the bees? What could you possibly have to say to me at four thirty in the freaking morning that couldn’t wait for six hours?”

“It’s about the library. You can’t fix it.”

“Oh God, not this again.”

“The building isn’t fucking stable.”

“You’re not stable,” I say, knowing full well that I sound like a five-year-old. But it’s really early. Or late, depending on how you count it. All I know is that I’ve had about two hours of sleep. “Why don’t you just build your little skyscraper and pretend the library doesn’t exist?”

“I wish I could,” he says grimly.

I feel the heat of Sutton’s body before I hear him. “What’s going on?”

Christopher’s eyes darken. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Guilt shoots through me, which is seriously unfortunate because I don’t owe Christopher Bardot any explanations. My body doesn’t understand that. My body thinks it owes many things, and it decides to enumerate them using my imagination. “We’re braiding each other’s hair, and later we’re going to use my Ouija board. What do you think he’s doing here?”

“Harper, you can’t believe everything he tells you.” Christopher looks like he wants to say more, but he presses his lips together and looks away. “Hell.”