Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

I push aside a swinging wooden door to go behind the counter myself. There’s a time capsule back here, papers in stacks moved only by the wind from above. Old stools with the leather worn, probably old even when the library closed. What had the librarians done when they closed the doors? Had they mourned this place? Someone should have.

Sutton follows me behind the counter, his blunt fingers moving along a carving in the back wall. Leaves create a forest wall made out of mahogany. A place for a tired librarian to lean against between moving stacks of books around.

Finally I find the little cards that they would fill out to lend a book. There’s a place to write the full name and address of the person. A place to write the book information. An optional ten-cent donation check box. Sutton joins me, placing his hand on my waist—such a small touch. It shouldn’t make my heart race.

“Look,” I say, showing him. “You can earn back your two million with this.”

He bends close, his blond hair more golden in this dim and dusty light. “How many books would we have to lend? It’s not as fast of a return as we hoped for.”

A sense of lightness invades my chest because he plays along with me. Does that mean he respects me more or less than Christopher, who rejects my ideas right away? I’m not sure either of them see me as an equal, but they both want my body.

Looking down at the cover of Cleopatra, the artist’s rendition of an overpriced prostitute done with childish ideas of Egyptian fashion, I wonder if that’s all we ever have.

Sutton turns his face toward my neck, breathing in. I turn toward him, my mouth only a few inches away. We could kiss in this place, and it would be almost sacred.

He pulls away, only an inch. Enough. “We can go to the office,” he says, his voice rough. “I’ll show you the plans and then we can talk about next steps.”

So businesslike, those words. Next steps.

I turn so that the counter is against my back and I’m facing Sutton. He could step back, if he really didn’t want this. If he didn’t want me to grasp his red tie and pull. If he didn’t want me to push up on my toes and kiss the corner of his lips.

He groans and opens his mouth over mine. His tongue touches my lower lip, my tongue. He touches me in intimate, warm places, and I can only think about him kissing me between my legs. Especially when his palm lands heavy on my thigh.

“Here?” I ask, but it’s not really a question. It’s more of a command.

His hands grasp me in a brusque motion, pushing me so that I’m sitting on the counter. My legs open with a naturalness that surprises me, and he moves between them. Even with the way his waist narrows, he spreads me wide. His demanding kiss pushes me back, only an inch, enough to unbalance me. My hands fall back to catch me on the dusty stacks of paper.

“Here,” he says as if it’s an order.

Both of us know by now that it’s acquiescence. He’s put me in charge of this thing we’re doing, made me the goddess of this ancient library. It makes me feel powerful when I grasp his hair and hold him steady, biting his bottom lip.

His hips jerk, as if against his will, pressing something hard and long against the inside of my leg. It makes me bite him again, harder this time. How does he do this to me? Make me vicious. As if something dangerous inside him calls to me.

And I know that he’s strong enough to take anything I give him.

“Do you think,” I say, gasping, “there were librarians who did this?”

He moves his mouth to my jaw, making my skin oversensitive with his lips. “God, I hope so. It would have been a travesty to have this counter and not use it.”

When he brushes his teeth along my collarbone, I let my head fall back. I look up at the broken windowpanes, at the too-bright sun. “I didn’t come last night.”

“No?” he asks, nipping at the upper curve of my breast. “You didn’t have Christopher finish what I started? You didn’t tell him to get on his knees for you?”

“He—” I have to pause and search for words as Sutton pushes his hand, blunt and urgent, beneath my panties. “He wanted to.”

That makes him push his clothed cock against me, same as the bite. He likes it when I’m rough with him. We’re both animalistic this way, here in this abandoned place.

“Would you touch me now if I’d let him?”

“Hell yes,” he says, his voice a grumble, those blue eyes narrowed. “I’d show you that I can make it better. I’m not afraid of competition.”

“You like it,” I say, panting.

“Yeah,” he says, and his fingers find me wet and swollen. His lids lower. He presses an open-mouthed kiss on my belly. Lower, lower. “I like competing. You gonna make me fight for it, honey?”

It’s probably wrong to answer yes. There’s some moral weakness inside me that only came to the surface when Christopher showed up at L’Etoile last night. “Would you win?” I whisper.

“No chance in hell I’m letting this sweet pussy get away.” That drawl becomes stronger when he’s turned on. It makes me want to push him further, to see how heavy and thick he can sound. So I spread my legs wider, using my heel on the counter for leverage, pressing myself against his mouth. He grunts his appreciation, spearing me with a blunt finger, and then two. His hand twists and does something inside me, something that makes my mouth fall open.