Corrupt

Alex’s hands ran up and down Rika’s legs, and she started pulling down her shorts, nibbling the skin over Rika’s hip bone.

“Ah,” Rika groaned, her eyes closed. “Michael…”

I lost my breath, shaking my head and my heart in a thousand knots.

She was winning. I was playing her game, and I was fucking losing. God, I wanted her so goddamn much.

But this wasn’t over.

I circled the bed and grabbed Alex by the arm, yanking her up.

“Leave,” I ordered.

“What?” she blurted out, her eyes desperate. “Are you kidding me?”

I guessed she was getting turned on and probably hoped I’d let it continue and enjoy the show.

But I shoved her away, not caring how disappointed she was. Will, Kai, and dozens of other guys—and girls—were out there. Let her take her pick.

Alex snatched up her dress, huffing as she walked out and slamming the door behind her. When I turned back, Rika stood next to the bed, a slight smirk on her face. “Your move.”

I breathed out a laugh, towering over her as I hardened my tone. “Did you like that?” I asked. “How far were you willing to go with her?”

She licked her lips. “Maybe further,” she admitted. “Or maybe I knew I wouldn’t have to go far at all. Maybe I know you better than you think I do.”

Reaching up, I trailed a finger across her jaw. “Do you?”

She held my eyes, her chest rising and falling faster, and I could tell she wanted to lean into my hand. She wanted me to say sweet things and to give into her, and she wanted my heart. That’s why she was pushing me.

But I wanted to play.

“The thing is…” I stated, narrowing my eyes on her. “We have a problem. You weren’t invited into my bed, and you came in here without permission.”

Taking her hand, I pulled her across the room, feeling her stumble behind me as I forced her toward the door.

“Michael!” she cried out, seeing me open it. “What are you doing?”

I dragged her to the opposite side of the empty hallway, two doors down, and hauled her into a bedroom, throwing her forward and closing the door behind me.

“Now that’s a bed you’re more familiar with.” I gestured to my brother’s bed. “Get in it.”

She faced me, fisting her hands at her sides and breathing hard, all composure lost. She shook her head, her eyes glistening with tears.

Why was I doing this? I could’ve told her how much I wanted her, how much I needed her, and how, after nearly a week, I could still taste her. She could be underneath me in my bed right now, and I could be inside of her, listening to her pant and getting lost in the sheets and the feel of her the rest of the night.

“Michael,” she begged, her voice brittle. “Why are you doing this? After today and everything you put me through? Why are trying to hurt me more?”

“Are you tapping out?”

Her face cracked, and she dropped her head, her body shaking with sobs. “You’re sick, Michael. You’re sick.”

I ground my teeth together, approaching her. “When I found out last year that you were dating Trevor, I hated it. I hated you, but I hated that even more. I wanted to come in here and see you in his bed and how you would’ve looked—”

“Why?” she cut in.

I stared into her eyes, knowing that I barely understood the answer to that question myself. Ever since I was little, I remember being angry. Angry that my father tried to mold me into someone I wasn’t. Angry that he took her out of my arms. Angry that she and Trevor were always pushed together. Angry that I had to leave for college and leave her alone with my family.

And then I was angry that she’d betrayed me. Or so I thought.

But for some reason, the anger didn’t break me. It made me my own person, someone who was defiant and knew their own mind. I stood up to my father, I made my own decisions, and I was invincible. And I became very good at finding my amusement in other ways.

Growing up, every time she walked into a room and looked at me, wanting me to look back so badly, I felt powerful when I refused to indulge her. When I left the room as if she hadn’t been there at all.

I loved that I dominated her pretty little head more than my brother ever could.

And indulging in a little self-torture, like picturing her in here with him, kept me hot and on edge. I liked that, because I liked who I was. It made me strong. Would giving in to her change me?

“I like to hurt myself,” I told her. “I need this. Now take off your clothes and get in his bed.”

“Michael,” she breathed out, trying to argue.

But I just stood there like a wall, unbending.

Her chest rose and fell hard, but she calmed her features and squared her shoulders, looking back up at me.

Her mouth twisted in anger, but her eyes turned bold as she tore off her clothes and pulled down her panties, stepping out of them and walking to the bed.

My heart started to beat faster, and I folded my arms over my chest, trying to stay hard.

She pulled back the covers, her long, blonde hair flowing down her back, and climbed in. She laid down, pulling the forest green sheet up to her waist and leaving her breasts uncovered.

Resting a hand behind her head, she looked at me, her big eyes taunting me as her other hand rested on her bare stomach. She looked so fucking soft and warm and perfect.

He’d seen her like this. He’d laid next to her like this, and regret wracked though me, not because of the picture before me, but because it should never have been him. I could’ve had her—her first time, everything—and I let her go three years ago.