The Deception (Filthy Rich Americans 3)

As Macalister crossed the hard line I’d drawn, the only thought in my head was Royce and what a mistake I’d made. I’d come into this room and done a terrible thing for us, but the cost was too high. I jerked and bucked, but that made me shift harder in Macalister’s lap, and his groan was louder and more satisfied this time.

I finally found my voice as I tried to pull our hands away. “No.”

“The only places I’m touching you are your hands and fingers. One of them just happens to be inside your body.”

Was he insane? “You’re fucking touching me.”

His right hand was still moving, making my fingers rub across my clit and right above where he’d slipped our fingers inside, but if it felt pleasurable, my mind refused to acknowledge it. It was blank with shock and rage.

“Macalister,” I cried, “stop.”

When he broke one rule, he broke them all. His damp lips grazed my neck. “Surrender, and I’ll set you free.”

I panicked when the darkest part of me whispered to do it, just let him have me. He was never going to stop until he had what he wanted. Alice had said as soon as I gave in, he’d leave me alone.

But a fire ignited in my belly and seared across my limbs, burning away the fog of unwanted desire and screamed at me to fight. I wasn’t Nyx.

I was fucking Medusa.

And I would brandish my full power. “Do you love me?”

He solidified, turning into stone, and sensed the trap I’d laid for him, but there was no going back. He gazed at me in the mirror and how I was lying against him, his suit-covered arms circled around my nude body and our hands pressed between my spread legs. As the truth climbed across his face, it was the first time I ever saw him look tragically beautiful.

“Yes,” he whispered.

I was unmoored, floating in the ocean at night, too far away to see the lighthouse, and I swallowed so hard, it was audible. “Then you’ll stop.”

The strength went out of his muscles. His retreat was quick, and instantly I was up out of the chair, whirling to face him. He looked devastated, realizing he’d gone much too far, and I wasn’t prepared for the uneven words that came out of him.

“I’m . . . sorry.”

The force of his apology knocked me back a step.

Macalister Hale didn’t apologize. He didn’t make mistakes or have a heart, but presented with all this evidence to the contrary, I didn’t know what to believe anymore. He looked as off-balance as I felt.

“It’s not enough,” I said. I wasn’t just angry with what he’d done to me, but with what he’d done to Royce.

My chest heaved breath into my lungs as he hesitantly came to his feet, and I stepped out of his path when he walked toward the mirror. No—wait. His destination wasn’t the mirror, it was my clothes heaped on the floor. He bent, scooped them up, and moved toward me with them in his hands like a peace offering.

“But we’re not finished,” I snapped.

He blinked, suspicion clouding his expression. What I’d said sounded too good to be true to him, but the truth was simpler. If I didn’t see this through, he’d twist it around. He’d find ways to use it to his advantage, and next time if I was dumb enough to be caught in his trap, he might not stop when I told him to.

I had all the power now, and we’d finish this on my terms.

I marched to his bed and sat at the foot of it with my heart in my throat, and kept my gaze pinned on him while I moved backward. My naked body slid across the smooth, satiny cover, which felt luxurious and soft and nothing like the ruthless man I’d been pressed against moments ago.

Macalister’s expression was fixed, but his body language gave him away. He shifted on his feet, unsure.

“You come any closer,” I said in the firmest voice I possessed, “and I’ll stop.”

He was still uncertain until I drew my knees up, set my heeled feet on the mattress, and lay my head down. I snaked my hand down my body, pressing my fingers to my clit, and began to stir. I stared up at the ceiling and heard his ragged breath, but otherwise he was quiet. He’d asked me to show him how I masturbated, and so I did, but this wasn’t a reward—it was punishment. I was showing him what he couldn’t have.

“I’m thinking about Royce,” I declared. My eyes drifted closed, and I pictured my husband.

It was like my pleasure was on a switch, and it took no effort to turn it on. I thought of the afternoon on our honeymoon when he’d pulled at the strings of my bikini bottom and pushed down his swim trunks, and we’d lain on our sides while he fucked me senseless from behind. Or months before that, when he’d picked me up and carried me into the shower with our clothes still on. How he’d torn my shirt and pushed me up against the glass, so desperate to have me he was incensed.