Hard(13)

I wanted that Shay back. I wanted the voracious, passionate, beautiful woman who wasn’t afraid to tell me where to touch, how hard to thrust, and how deep to push.

But she wasn’t playing.

“Let go of me.” Shay shook free of my grasp. “You can’t call it fun anymore. You can’t call it anything. What we did was wrong.” She shoved away before she leaned any closer to my lips. “What you did was wrong. You should have told me who you were.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“You stand to inherit half of my father’s fortune. Half, and I don’t even know you. You are a complete and total stranger to me, and, somehow, you managed to steal from me, from my family, and from the memory of my father. You’re a monster.”

“Not fair.”

“You’re right. It isn’t fair.” Shay returned to William’s desk and grabbed both sets of keys. She pocketed them both and scowled. “If you think you’re getting anything from me, you’re wrong. Enjoy the memory of that night, Zach, because the next time I fuck you over? You won’t like it so much.”

“At least there’ll be a next time,” I grinned.

“Not going to happen, Zach. This is the last time you ever see me.”

I wasn’t a betting man, but I’d stake all my newly inherited fortune on her being wrong. I’d give her the money, park the cars, and never set foot in the estate if it meant I’d have another shot to get back with her.

One night wasn’t enough. Sex with Shay was a religious conversion, and I was a zealot without a temple.

No need pissing her off. I surrendered, my hands in the air.

“You stay,” I said. “You and William probably have a lot to discuss.”

I winked at her, heading to the door. The attorney could email me whatever papers I had to initial. For a chance at Shay, I was prepared to sign my life, soul, and cock away.

Shay fumed, but I laughed, imagining those pouty lips used for something so much better than a frown.

“I’ll see you around, sis.”





Thirty-five thousand square feet.

What in the hell was my father going to do with thirty-five thousand square feet of space in his house?

Two wings from the main house. Nine bedrooms.

Eleven freaking bathrooms.

I couldn’t begin to process how ridiculous it was to have eleven bathrooms. He had each room finished with a different imported Italian tile, showcasing bathtubs large enough for Olympic training. I half expected a synchronized swimming team to pop out of the Jacuzzi bubbles and start scrubbing the vanities.

This mansion was nothing like where we lived growing up. When company came over to Momma’s two bedroom apartment, we could only set out the good soap. The kind that smelled like mint-raspberry and was carved into ocean animals even though Momma never saw a starfish in her life.

Sure it was humble, but it was our life. While Momma was proud to provide premium toilet paper—triple ply with decals—for our visiting friends, my father painted the walls of his guest bathroom with flecks of real gold.

Even the camel trying to fit through the needle in Jerusalem would have taken a detour through the sauna attached to the master bath.

I toured through the house on tippy-toes, as if the real owner would follow me to the conservatory and knock me out for trespassing. They’d find me dead in the library, a candelabra to the head Professor Plum style. But no one murdered me while I explored the dining room behind the second sitting parlor. At least, it looked like a dining room—the kind from fancy story books and European castles and movies with Anne Hathaway.

This wasn’t a home. It was a maze. My father stuffed it full of relics and statues and overstuffed, Victorian furniture. It wasn’t me. Then again, college was more bean bags and body pillows, not wingbacks and pedestals.

What was he planning on doing with all of this?

I snuck into the grand foyer, his museum of marble staircases and crystal chandeliers. The house had a hundred places to sit in every material and comfort level imaginable—including a chair that looked too much like real zebra. I plunked down on the stairs instead.

This was ridiculous.

The house. The funeral. The almost-wedding. The secret marriage.

Zach.

I was used to being abandoned, but I was never used before. Did he have sex with me to get lucky, or had he deliberately indulged in something perverted to steal his inheritance?

Whatever his game, it wasn’t sexy. It was sad. Disturbing.

And it had felt so real.

Our night was passionate. It forged a solid, absolute connection that made the other two lovers I experienced seem like little more than a flick of my fingers. I never came like that. I never acted like that. I never thought I’d meet someone who made me feel so…desired.