Thorne Princess(41)

“Stop this. I already told you, I won’t touch you in an inappropriate way. You have my word. Why do you think I’d try anything with you? It’s like hetero assholes naturally assuming gay people will come on to them.”

She said something animatedly, but again, it was muffled by my palm. Brat reached at my face, trying to claw my eyes out. She wanted an altercation, and I wasn’t sure why.

She was feral, unruly, and a goddamn pain. She was also the first client to make me bleed, which didn’t disturb me as much as it should have.

“You aren’t going to stop, are you?” I asked.

She shook her head wildly, looking at me with a crazy twinkle in her eye. I recognized that abandon. It appeared whenever I hooked up with a woman who liked to be roughed up. But it couldn’t be. Brat wasn’t that kind of person. She was used to Hollywood pretty boys who probably fucked like they were starring in French art films. Making loooooooove.

My blood had disappeared into her cleavage. We both watched as it trickled between the valley of her breasts. My cock throbbed, thick and pulsating against my jeans.

“Don’t hold back.” She hooked her fingers inside my front pockets, tugging me closer. “Grind against me.”

“What do you want?” I shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to get out of this bathroom without cooperation. It sounded more like a plea than a question.

She began moving her lips. Reluctantly, I pulled my hand away to let her speak.

“My phone back. Permanently, Skipper the Creeper.”

She licked her lips, looking up at me like a little vampire. Forbidden and fey. I wondered about the men she’d been with—or had they been pretty boys, unable to deliver what she needed? What was Hallie Thorne like with each of them? How many? A good amount, no doubt. Although interestingly enough, when I sifted through her text messages and call logs, I couldn’t find any evidence of hookups. She had a Tinder account on her phone, but obviously hadn’t been using it since meeting me—and there had been no new notifications. Maybe she was going through a self-inflicted dry spell.

A greasy beef-head like Wes Morgan could trigger celibacy, even in nymphomaniacs.

“And you think acting like a child is going to achieve your goal?” I snarled. We were crowded together in the tiny space, my body flush with hers. Someone shook the lavatory door from the outside, groaning in protest when they realized it was locked.

“I think we both need to learn how to compromise if we want to make this work.”

“Compromise,” I repeated, bracing the sink on both sides around her, my nose very nearly brushing hers. Her entire body was humming with charged, pent-up…something. Desire? Hate? Disdain? I couldn’t tell. Parts of her personality made me suspect she was a grade-A sex kitten, and others hinted she could give the Virgin Mary a run for her money. “Fine. Let’s bargain. Tell me why I should give you your phone back.”

“Because in return, I’ll give you my cooperation.” She smiled winningly.

“Nice try.”

“Well, what do you want?” Her eyebrows pulled together like two perfect checkmarks.

That was easy. Not get a stiffy every time she decided to get a rise out of me. Could she make that happen? Doubt it.

“I want you to make a promise and keep it.”

She stared at me, wide-eyed, like a child listening to a story, waiting eagerly for more.

Was I really letting her off with a bit of homework? Yes. It was too soon for her to find an actual job. If she got one now, she’d be fired before she even showed up to work. Besides, I could follow her around the mansion all I wanted, there was no way an employer would accept me scaring away the customers.

“You may have your phone back if you promise to use the time in Texas to think about what you want to do with your future. I’m talking about getting a real job, Brat. Not one you can do from your phone while taking a dump. Once we get back to Los Angeles, you’ll be making some changes to your lifestyle. Am I clear?”

Hatred stared back at me through those baby blues. She really didn’t want to get a job. Why? Thousands of jobs, in Los Angeles alone, required minimum intelligence and even less commitment. She could be a stylist. Or a reporter for one of those cable channels. The very thought of putting herself out there seemed to paralyze her.

“I still don’t understand why I can’t just continue as an influencer.”

“Well, that’s because your annual income is currently $3,392.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

The lavatory door shook again, reminding us that outside, someone waiting now believed we were either fucking or taking the longest shit known to mankind.

“It’s my job to know everything about you.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she closed her eyes. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll think of something.”

“And no more pranks. No steak in my closet, salt in my coffee, screaming in public. I apologize that you had to witness what you did the other night, but it was a sexual relationship between two consenting adults.”

Now that I’d listed all of her little stunts, I had to admit, she’d crammed a lot into a short period of time. The door shook more prominently now. I banged my palm against it. “Go away.”

“All right.” She pouted. “Guess it’s only fair, since I don’t seem to be able to get you to quit. Truce?” She raised her pinky finger, offering it to me.