The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(51)

Divine.

Euphoric.

Destructive.

I then proceeded to wonder how dumb I could possibly be. I’d signed a contract vowing to keep him celibate. I couldn’t sleep with him.

I looked away, munching on the skin around my thumb. When I heard Knox still shuffling around in his room, I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned around and stuffed my hand in Hunter’s pocket without giving him any warning. My fingers collided with his penis, and I almost jumped back, when I felt something. A piece of fabric. I narrowed my eyes at him, stopping dead with my fist around the fabric.

“No.”

He gave me an exaggeratedly sweet look, batting his lashes.

“Stop pretending to be innocent. Your innocence died a long time ago.”

“That it did, bloodied and screaming. All the same, it could be Knox’s lingerie. He is a fine-looking specimen.”

I snorted. “I’m pulling it out.”

“Hey, that’s supposed to be my line.”

I tugged at the fabric. My fingers shook around it.

Yellow.

With red spots.

Did I have red and yellow underwear? I racked my brain trying to remember. But it wasn’t my underwear. It was a bloodied piece of cloth. It looked like part of a shirt. I realized it was a piece of the shirt the guy he’d fought with at the pub was wearing. Hunter had kept it. Shame, excitement, disappointment, and every single other feeling in my emotion basket slammed into me all at once. My eyes darted up.

He curled his fist around mine, so we were both holding the fabric. He leaned down. His lips brushed mine.

“Fuck, you are easy to rattle. Your ass is so mine for the next five months.”

“Get away from me.” But my words lacked conviction. They were empty, hollow, wispy.

“Submit, prey,” he growled darkly.

“Fight harder for it, Hunter.”

“I’ll swallow you whole.” His breath caressed my cheek and ear, sending my hair flying with warmth. “You don’t know my kind. Arrow-proof.”

A dark, delicious quiver ran down my spine as he whispered that.

Knox came back when we were a fraction of an inch from a kiss, with me hanging on to the remainder of my self-control with bloody fingers.

He stood in front of us with a cardboard box full of equipment, cutting the charged moment with a metaphorical knife. “Ready to play?”

Hunter looked back at him, completely poised, calm, and in control, smiling devilishly.

“Always.”





I replaced the clock in Syllie’s office after everyone had left.

It was just the cleaning ladies and me, vacuuming, gossiping, ohh-ing and ahh-ing to the distorted Filipino station they blasted from a radio.

The clock was the easy part. Earlier today, I’d gone down to the parking lot and put a tracker on Syllie’s car. One of Da’s accountants had stepped out of his Model X Tesla when he saw me on all fours, fingering the bottom of Syllie’s Mercedes like some auto-fetish creeper.

“What on Earth are you doing?” he’d demanded, looking down his nose at me—testament to the fact that Da hadn’t claimed me as anything other than a glorified PA, minus the generous rack.

I had to think fast. “Getting high on fumes,” I said without missing a beat.

Yeah. That was the best I could come up with. Shut up.

“Is that a thing?” His saucer eyes widened.

Considering he was approximately a thousand years old, I figured he’d buy it. I pretended to wipe my nose with the sleeve of my blazer, grinning.

“Gives the best high. If you haven’t tried it yet, are you even living?”

“Will you teach me how to do it?” His plump face twisted in question.

Being the cool kid sucked balls in Boston. Plus, this particular cool kid didn’t even have any friends—other than Sailor, who was a potential fuck buddy, so I couldn’t get attached.

“Bet.” I stood up. “Sometime soon. Not now.”

What I really meant was when hell froze over.

Yeah, that seemed like a good fucking time to spend time with the old sod.




The day after the clock and the car came the real pickle: the glasses. Syllie rarely took them off. He was blind as a bat. When he finally parted ways with them, he put them on his desk and rushed out of his office. I may have asked the stuttering receptionist to call him urgently regarding some papers that had come about the new refinery in Maine. It was a dumb excuse, so I knew I had five minutes, max.

I bolted into his room, pocketed the original glasses, and placed an identical pair with the recording device in their place. It was some magic-ass wireless shit that streamed the recordings live. I rounded Syllie’s desk as he walked back in.

My heart dropped to my asshole. Maybe literally. There was a moment when I wondered if I was going to survive. If not, I dreaded the headline. “Young Heir Leaves Reluctant, Semi-Loving Family and Hot Roommate Behind.”

At least I’d always be remembered for my contributions to society: orgasms, one-liners I borrowed from George Carlin, and starting the bomber-jacket-over-tux-shirt trend at All Saints High.

Song of the day: “Hey, Look, Ma I Made It” by Panic! At the Disco.

“Sonny-boy,” Sylvester greeted me. “What are you doing in my office?”