Hate, resentment, rage, nothing good.
“You really have done an amazing job with him, Kat,” he says.
“You are most kind, Mr. Crew.”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“What?” I ask, despite myself.
A knowing look has sparked into his eyes.
“What?” he echoes, a teasing note in his voice.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I murmur, a blush infusing my cheeks, regretting even starting this line of questioning.
“It’s just you sometimes speak in an even more formal manner than Maxwell, and he’s descended from British royalty. Or so he tells me.”
“Oh,” I say, and then fresh anger surges into me.
It’s street-anger, the same rage that swept over me every time I had to beg for change or steal food from a table after the diners had left.
It’s the anger that instilled itself in my bones the night I had to run away from the orphanage, Omar roaring after me, telling me he’d never forget.
“I suppose that must be quite annoying for you, hmm?” I snap, unable to stop myself.
You only have two modes, Katherine. Timid or tyrannical.
That was what Mom told me, when I was only eight years old, right before the fire, before hell.
“Because here I am, clearly poor and uneducated and, let’s face it, fat and ugly girl—here I am, pretending that I’m better than I am with my marginally-better-than-normal vocabulary, and there you are, a billionaire, a conqueror of worlds. I suppose you want me to speak like Oliver Twist.”
He smirks and leans closer, seeming so huge I want to scream, to shiver, to let it all go for him.
Lust like I’ve never felt before swirls around me in a mad unstoppable dance, even as my anger surges through me.
My heart thumps and the drumbeat seems to send electric eels coursing through me, touching every part of me.
“Why are you smirking like that?” I hiss.
“You,” he growls huskily, so close now his hot breath paints my cheeks. “You don’t have to be ashamed of the way you speak, Kat. And you definitely don’t have to be ashamed of the way you look. In fact, you never have to be ashamed with me. For fucking anything.”
I gaze at him, tragically lost in his spell, and yet searching for the trick, the punchline.
Because there must be one.
“The truth is my mother was born to wealthy parents and raised to be very la-de-da,” I say, compelled to tell him by some instinct I don’t even understand. “When she married my father, they fell on hard financial times and were left with no money, but with all the affectation. But one thing my mom would never scrimp on is elocution. She taught me herself. So I had four years of elocution lessons and them—bam. I was in the state system, which is probably where I got my accent. So you see, Mr. Crew, I’m a bit of a hybrid.”
Part of me has always suspected that I kept speaking like Mom – or at least that her way of speaking often arises in me – as a way to stay close to her.
“It’s okay,” Colton whispers and then lifts his hand to my cheek and strokes softly.
He wipes away my tears.
I didn’t even know I was crying.
“They died in a house fire,” I murmur, choking back a sob.
Stop, stop.
He doesn’t care about that.
“I’m sorry,” I say, jumping off the stool as best as I can and taking several steps back. “I shouldn’t be talking about this. It’s not very professional.”
I’m not even sure how any of this happened, how any part of me thought it was acceptable to talk about that now, here, at work.
“I’ll call to arrange our next training session,” I mumble, heading for the door.
“Wait,” Colton calls, voice deep.
I turn and find him striding toward me with confident steps.
He stands so close I can feel the blaring heat of his body, see every twitching tendon in his neck, tension moving through him.
But why?
Why did he wipe away my tears? Why does he care? Why did he tell me I never have to be ashamed with him?
“What?” I whisper.
“I’m tired, Kat,” he says deeply.
“Tired of what?”
“Pretending.”
He leans down and I let out a gasp, but then the gasp is cut short by the rough, tingling contact of his lips.Chapter FiveColtonA note of hesitation moves through her as the carnal noise that’s been building inside of me reaches a crescendo.
But then she makes a muffled whimpering noise and melts against me, shivering as I slide my hands down to her hips and grip her firmly.
I tug her closer to me, fusing our bodies as we sink deeper into the kiss. Grabbing onto her hips fires primal passion into me, my hands inch aside her tank top and clutch onto her bare skin, feeling the wide hips that are perfect for bearing my children, for giving me – us, always fucking us – a family.