Survival of the Richest (The Trust Fund Duet 1)

When I wake up, it’s still dark in the room, no beam of light from between the two heavy drapes. There’s a warm body underneath me, muscles waiting. My hand clenches in springy hair on a broad chest. Before I look up, I know it’s Sutton. A slice through my chest, realizing that we’re alone in the room. Sometime after taking my virginity, sometime after kissing my hair, he walked away. That’s what he always does. He probably has some academic reasoning in his head about how it’s actually protecting me, walking away, instead of breaking my heart again.

“Morning,” he says softly.

“Christopher?”

?

??He left. Are you feeling okay?” He means the virginity thing, which I want to brush off as nothing. Not a big deal. Only a social construct, except it feels distinctly physical right now. There’s a dull ache between my legs, a reminder of where Christopher has been.

Beneath a white sheet I can see that Sutton’s hard. “I’m fine. What about you?”

A flash of teeth as he smiles. “Don’t worry about me.”

I’m worried about the way Christopher interrupted us in the hallway. About the way he interrupted us last night. We must have reached the part where it hurts him.

My palm brushes over the muscled ridges and flat plane, down to where his arousal burns against my hand. He sucks in a breath when I grasp him with my fist. This part I’ve done before, playing in the basements of boys I could barely remember after the fact. They weren’t as big as Sutton Mayfair. Not nearly as controlled either. He lets me stroke him, down and down, the rest of his body still like a predator coiled to strike.

“You’re sore,” he says, his voice like rocks grating against each other.

“Not,” I say, which is a lie. It doesn’t matter, this ache between my thighs. I want to feel Sutton; maybe more than that, I want him to feel me.

He looks like he’s about to argue the point, and God, he could prove it. If he touched me between my legs, I would probably flinch. So I press my lips against his chest, to the side, lips open and teeth grazing him. His body jerks, no longer controlled.

“Damn,” he mutters.

“It’s just the two of us,” I whisper.

It’s just the two of us, which means we can finally get this right. Now, when I’m still fragile and sore from Christopher, it might finally be enough to free me from wanting him. If only I could want another man. If only I could want Christopher and have him, that would be enough.

He holds himself back, but only barely. Those muscles that look handsome beneath his suit have turned into something far more feral. He’s part animal now, vibrating with need. “Shouldn’t touch you like this. Should give you a break.”

The memory of those blue eyes watching Christopher comes back to me. He was trying to prove something letting him be the first, but I don’t know what. That he might be first, but Sutton would be last? I don’t know what he’s playing, but there’s far too much thinking in it.

So I let my thumb brush over the tip of Sutton’s cock, smoothing precome over the blunt satin of him, feel the shake of his body—and the moment when he breaks.

Firm hands grasp my body and turn me over, facing down. I pushed him toward this, but it’s still a surprise to feel him arrange me, knees beneath my body, a pillow supporting me. He pushes inside me without preamble, and I’m glad I can hide my soft cry of pain in the mattress.

“Harper,” he says, his voice rough-edged with desire.

“I’m okay,” I manage to gasp, because I’m stretched and aching—but I’m telling the truth. I can survive anything to feel Sutton come apart. “Please, Sutton. I want you.”

He groans his surrender, covering my back with his body. “Christ.”

His cock pushes against the walls. He’s thicker than Christopher was, or maybe I’m just that sore now, but either way I wince with the effort to let him in. Until his large hand delves beneath my stomach and between my legs. He finds my clit with rough fingers, his touch knowing and merciless. He pinches me hard enough to distract me from the stretch. Hard enough that I’m pushing back so he’ll give me more.

“You’re incredible. Do you know that? You’re a goddamn miracle and you walked into my office. How could I not want you? How could I not have you?”

I’m glad I don’t have to answer those questions, because I don’t know. My lips can’t form words when he fucks me hard and fast, letting the desire from last night build, pull us into climax. His body uses mine in a way that feels primal. A sharp pain on my shoulder. He bites down hard, which sends me over the edge. Orgasm clenches my body as he rides toward his own release. In the last minute he pulls out and spills, hot and thick at the small of my back.

My body collapses, slick with sweat and arousal and come.

Sutton strokes a hand down the side of my thigh, a caress that says what words can’t. How I’ve pleased him. How he needed that and I gave it to him. There’s animal pride in me, even as I lie in a limp puddle on the lace bedspread.

There’s running water and then he’s back with a warm washcloth. He cleans my back and then turns me over, tucking me into bed. My eyes are closed when he joins me, curling his body around me as if he can protect me from morning. As if he can keep me when it comes.

His breathing evens out, and I know he’s asleep. But no matter how tired I am, I’m not going to fall asleep again. I’m wide awake in his arms, counting down the hours until I’ll slip away. It was everything I wanted it to be—sensual and mind blowing. I’m halfway in love with Sutton, lying here, but the sad part is, I’m still in love with Christopher Bardot.

Somehow I’ve only made it worse.