Griffin (Ruthless MC 3)

Silence. Then he says, “Bra and panties too.”

Oh God…oh God…

How is this so much harder than getting thrown on a bed and spanked?

I do as he says, but I keep on talking, partly to try to convince him, but mostly to distract myself from the fact that I’m stripping completely naked.

“I get that you think this will balance some scale of justice. But it won’t. It will only make things between us worse. It will only make me hate you.”

This is technically a plea, but the last sentence comes out a vicious whisper.

“Are you threatening me?” he asks, his voice a soft knife.

“I’m trying to make you see reason,” I correct. “I’m not that girl. Not anymore. And the only thing you’re going to gain from doing this is a whole bunch of hate from me and a whole bunch of disappointment for yourself when you find out I have nothing in common with that woman you were so eager to mind-game.”

“Hmmm…” He makes a considering sound, thrumming my heart with hope. But then he says, “I’ll take my chances.”

His decision slices through me, and all hope of avoiding this thing I’ve agreed to drains out of the exit wound.

“Now, do me a favor. Stop talking and get in the bed. Red or Bernice—I’m pretty sure you remember how I feel about having to tell you things twice.”

Terrible, terrible words from a terrible, terrible man. Then he starts stripping out of his own clothes, mocking me with that devil beauty covered in so much ink. A shiver of anticipation goes through me—one I quickly quell.

I tell myself the same thing I did in the conference room when I decided to take his second offer.

This isn’t the cabin. This is real life. You’ll only have to have sex with him once. Then he’ll leave you alone.

I hate-read so many articles about him in the weeks following that New Year’s Eve, trying to understand, trying to reconcile what had happened.

Serious music magazines liked how he repped for the South with a mixture of dirty trap and a signature country croon, overlaid with the laid-back California sensibility of a Snoop Dogg.

Motorcycle magazines loved him for never forgetting his roots and wearing his Reapers vest or jacket whenever he went on stage—though, like most one-percenters, they were eager to note, he never talked about his MC to outsiders.

But nobody loved him more than men’s magazines. I read mouth-breathing piece after piece about his rumored prowess with women, including a cover story written from the viewpoint of an anonymous groupie who managed to turn one night with him into a five-page piece.

One quote stuck with me through the years, as I tried to figure out why he played me like he did:

“G-Latham likes the chase, but he gets bored once he catches you. He’s the kind of guy who gives you his full attention in bed, but when he’s done with you, it’s like you never met. None of the other girls following the Outlaw Country Festival feel bad for me when he freezes me out at the next stop on the tour after charming me into bed two nights before. ‘G-Latham’s a pleasure you have to savor,’ one of them tells me. ‘Everybody knows if he sleeps with you once, he never wants to get with you again. He's just built for shiny and new things.’”

That quote echoes through my head as I stiffly place myself in the bed.

The issue, I’d decided, was that Red had been a perfect storm for the monster. A bet he could win, a challenge he could conquer, someone he could anonymously experiment on—like a scientist without any conscious.

So, all I have to do tonight is not be a challenge. I’ll just lie here. Like a starfish. Then he’ll get bored of me and move on—

Griffin drops into the bed beside me like a supple leopard. Eyes hooded. Muscles on arrogant display. His cock is a spear between his legs, standing and heavily veined.

He flicks his eyes over me lazily. Like he knows he’s going to eat me but wants to play with me first.

Then he says, “You be on top.”

I’m not Red, I’m not Red, I’m not. But I blink the same way I would have in the cabin, and I ask, “Are you serious?” in a voice that comes out sounding at least six years younger.

He just smirks and lies back. “Impress me.”

The two words slosh over my skin like cold, dirty bathwater. The groupie had mentioned him saying the same thing to her. Like all women were jesters, hired to entertain.

Oh, hey, more mind-games.

I swallow a hard lump of bitterness and go back to my original plan. Don’t be interesting. Don’t give him any more of your upset to savor, like an appetizer for the full, humiliating meal.