Sabotage: A Dark Enemies to Lovers Romance

“Okay.”

“Don’t be shy, Raylee.” He points at me. “Your mom is going crazy being here all by herself ever since you moved in with Colton and the guys.”

I bet. I’ve been living with him for three years now.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” my mom calls out to him as he walks down the hall.

“Well…” I push off the barstool. “I’m going to go upstairs and get my phone, and then I’m going to leave.”

“Sure you can’t join us for dinner?” Sticking her bottom lip out, she pouts, and I laugh.

“Not tonight. I’ve got plans.” Lie.

“Okay.” Walking over to me, she gives me another tight hug and whispers, “I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.” Pulling away, I make my way upstairs and to the bathroom. My phone sits on the counter next to the sink with ten new texts and three missed calls. Tatum finally called our house earlier when I wasn’t answering my cell, worried about me. I still had it on silent from all the video notifications. Otherwise, I would have heard it ringing while Colt and I were up here earlier.

Three texts are from Nate. I don’t even open them. I’m sure there’s nothing he could possibly need to say to me that I would want to hear. I already know I’m a whore. Don’t need his reminder.

Exiting the bathroom, I stop and look down the hall to Colt’s old bedroom. I find myself walking over to it. Pushing the door open, I flip on the light.

He’s such a guy. Walls covered with football posters; shelves covered with sports memorabilia. He’s got pictures of him and the guys up on a poster board that Macey Johnson made him his senior year of high school. The girl was obsessed with him. They all were.

I walk over to his king-sized bed and sit on the side. It all started in this damn bedroom. My body came alive. It had been begging for what Colt made it feel.

I knew he hated me. He treated me like shit. But in here, things were different. I liked it. The hateful words he normally spewed at me sounded different when we were both naked. They felt just as cruel, but it was like he said it in a different language that only I could understand.

He wanted me.

He was hard for me.

He came for me.

Colt wasn’t a virgin. And let’s just say my first time wasn’t what I thought it would be. But isn’t it that way for most girls? Colt made my second time mind-blowing. And the third. And the fourth. Fuck, it was so good that I had aftershocks. Fucking tremors.

Lying back on the bed, I fan out my arms and close my eyes, remembering that day like it was yesterday. Not five years ago.

We crash through his bedroom door, and he pulls me to a stop. “Get undressed,” he orders.

I pull the crop top up and over my head and toss it to the side. Then I shove the Juicy shorts down my legs along with my underwear. When I stand to my full height, I realize he’s leaning up against his now closed door. Still dressed.

My heartbeat accelerates, and I place my hands over my chest. Panic turns my stomach. This was a prank. His friends are going to jump out and laugh at me. Maybe even take pictures of me.

He hates me. Has never been nice to me or shown any sexual interest in me. Why would he now? Stupid Raylee. I always told myself I’d never be one of those girls, yet here I am. Tears sting my eyes and I lower them to my bare feet.

Deciding to run for it, I try to get out of his room but he’s blocking the door. “What’s wrong, princess?” he asks in that condescending tone.

Princess isn’t a term of endearment. It’s a nickname he’s given me to belittle me. And I hate it.

“Let me out.” I sniff, head still down, now looking at his tennis shoes. My room is just down the hall, but no one is home. And the maids won’t be here until tomorrow.

Placing his hand under my chin, he lifts it, forcing me to look up at him. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“But—”

“I’m going to fuck that pretty face, remember?” His voice is soft, almost loving. His green eyes search mine before dropping to my lips. “You’re going to be a good slut for me.”

I whimper, my thighs tightening. Why do those words turn me on? I can feel the wetness running down my legs. It’s wrong. We’re taught not to be objectified. To have self-respect. Know our worth and demand more than that. So why does my body react in a way that it shouldn’t?

“Don’t cry.” His free hand comes up and cups my face. “Not yet anyway. I haven’t even gotten started.”