Wicked Grind (Stark World 1)

I was a fool to think I could do this--that I could display myself like that. That I could be so free, so open, with any man, much less Wyatt. A man who has always broken through my defenses.

A man who used to treasure me, but now cares nothing for me.

Less than nothing, actually. He reviles me, and why shouldn't he? I'm the one who left, after all. I'm the one who walked away and never looked back. And even though I may have fantasized that he would find me and call me and rescue me, I've always known that was a wish that could never come true.

For one thing, why would he try after what I did?

For another, how would he have managed to find me?

I know that we were kids back then, but that doesn't change the fact that I hurt him anymore than it changes the fact that I loved him. I did.

But love didn't make a difference. I screwed up, and I destroyed everything.

I'd thought I could handle tonight. That the fact that I needed the money would give me the strength to make it okay. But it's not okay. Because when he touched me, everything rushed back to me. Infatuation. Desire. Need.

I wanted him.

But more than that, I wanted him to want me. Maybe I was shy. Maybe I was awkward. But I wasn't scared. I was turned on.

He barely touched me, and yet I craved so much more. His hands on me. His lips hot against my skin.

With each infinitesimal change in the position of that sheet, I fantasized about his hands moving intimately over my body, not simply to set up the shot, but for his pleasure. And for mine.

He was a man I couldn't have--a man who rightfully despised me--and yet I would have willingly slept with him tonight, then slinked away in the morning hating myself.

He'd tempted me on purpose, of course. But not because he felt anything for me. He'd already told me as much, hadn't he? This was my punishment, and he was an expert at inflicting it.

Or maybe he wasn't.

Because instead of being something to endure, the night was something to treasure. Yes, I was scared. But I was excited, too. Not just because of how he touched me, but because I was pushing myself. I was breaking out of that shell. Going a little wild in ways I hadn't let myself go in years. Or ever, really, except for that one time twelve years ago.

That felt good. Bold. Like I was a butterfly pushing out of my cocoon.

But then he took me to the monitor, and when I peered down at the digital image, the reality of what I was doing struck me. This was just like twelve years ago. A bad choice. A dangerous choice.

And as I gazed at the monitor and the stunning, vibrant image of a confident, sexual woman who had my face and body, all I could do was stand there as my father's voice rang through my head. Everything I've done for you, and you still turn out to be a whore. Just like your mother. And you'll get the same as she did, too. You keep acting like this, and you just see what you get.

I couldn't do it.

I hate myself for letting him down--for letting myself and Griffin down, too--but I just couldn't do it.

And I know--I know--that my father is wrong. That it doesn't really work that way. That the bad things that I do don't punish other people. That my mother's affair wasn't the reason that she and her boyfriend died in a car wreck.

I know that.

I even know that posing for Wyatt's pictures doesn't make me bad or wicked or any of the things my father would shout at me.

It doesn't, and I get that.

But knowing and believing aren't always the same thing. And maybe it's better sometimes to just avoid walking that line.

Besides, I've never had the best judgment where Wyatt is concerned. He's like a hurricane dropped in the middle of my neat, orderly life.

Too much stress. Too much mess.

I'm better off without him. And I can still figure out some way to get the money.

The money.