Take It On The Run

Chapter 45

POV: Sloan

Wrapped in a bath towel on the bed, skin scrubbed raw, I wondered if this cheap, dirty feeling—if this bone-deep disgust—would ever fade.

I stared down at the phone in my hand, feeling its weight. Feeling numb and immobile. I should use it. I should call home. But what would I even say?

I drew the line at lying to my family, and that's what the guys were to me, I realized, family. Instead, I stared and stared at the phone because, in truth, this wasn't over. Because more would be demanded of me after the limo ride. Because I couldn't escape Liam Murphy now. Because I couldn't afford to lose focus until my task was complete. So I stayed silent.

The phone was nothing more than a reminder of my betrayal, and I didn't want to look at it anymore.

I crawled across the mattress to the painting that presided over the pillows, quietly sticking the phone and the charger inside the compartment on the back that Bridget had described.

It wouldn't be long before my fiancé wanted me again, and I needed to get ready. I'd managed to keep my hair and face dry when I'd showered, but my lipstick and the foundation on my chin and around my mouth hadn't withstood projectile vomiting.

As I sat before the vanity mirror staring at the unfamiliar bright blonde curls and heavy makeup, I wondered who the fuck I had become.

The memory of Liam Murphy's body cupping mine, his possessive language, mouth, and hands, and what we'd done together still clung to me like the air in New Orleans on a hot, humid day.

No matter what I did or told myself—that I'd had to do it to conceal the phone, that I had to give him something to tame his desire for me, that he'd begin to suspect I was working against him if I showed disgust at his touch—I couldn't escape the knowledge that the limo was only the beginning, and we'd barely even started this dangerous dance.

There was something else that deeply unsettled me, something I didn't care to examine too closely but that continued to burrow its way deep beneath my skin like a starving tick.

I had...I had gotten off to Liam Murphy's touches and filthy words in that limo. Not Sumner. Not Reed. Not Deacon. Not Avery. But Liam fucking Murphy, the literal spawn of satan.

That was why I felt so fucking wretched now in the aftermath. Because on some level, I knew I was physically attracted to my fiancé, and I didn't want to be. Not just because of my feelings for the guys but because of what he'd done to me. Because I hated his goddamn guts. The people, places, and experiences he'd robbed me of. His sick fascination with me and how he continued to try to groom me like an underage virgin even though I was twenty-six years old. It wasn't right.

I knew all of that, and still, my pussy had sung for him. Sung for the rough strokes and dirty talk and the feel of his hard cock and body against me. And it was completely at odds with everything else I felt.

Some animalistic part of my brain recognized, even enjoyed, that Liam Murphy knew what he was doing, knew what he wanted, and knew how to get it. And yes, there was something inherently hot about that, which probably boiled down to a cliche daddy complex I'd never interrogated and hadn't dissipated with the sudden reemergence of my father.

My heart and body strongly disagreed on all of it. The conflict between hate and desire, between a fated marriage and chosen love, between control and freedom, between Liam Murphy and the boys I'd grown up with—it threatened to tear me apart. It already had me unraveling, and I hadn't even been here for forty-eight hours yet.