Ties

Chapter Seven

Why is she trying to push my buttons? I shove the phone into my jacket pocket, failing to downplay the irritation that I'm sure is showing clear as day across my face. Briar smirks, coughing out a single satisfied laugh before returning to her conversation with Trey.

Parker Fucking James!

Like I didn't notice my nosy ass friend peering over my shoulder, reading the text? She preaches how I need to be put in my place, constantly. Please. Two can play this game. So far, she's not had a single bad thing to say about the soon to be ex-CEO, except that she's under my skin—she's right. Trust me, Briar always has an opinion.

I've never had someone make me feel this way. I want to choke the shit out of her and stick my dick in her. Maybe at the same time? I think I'd prefer it at the same time. Or possibly her hand around my neck, while I slam into her. That is a new level of twisted for me.

What the hell?

I'm down for the kink. Don't get me wrong, it can be hot. But usually, it's me doing it, making women the ones who are vulnerable—only if they ask for it. Asshole? We established that. However, I'd never force anything on anyone.

Do I actually want her to do that to me?

What is it with this woman?

I drag an absent palm over my neck, pretty sure there has to be a mark lingering from her death grip. Should probably check that out. Anyway, as I rub my throat, reliving that sensation... I realize I want to experience it again. I'm confused and horny and—FUCK!!!

The way Parker reacted when I'd speculated she had any type of physical relationship with my father was obvious. She seemed genuinely shocked, repulsed. Either she truly never slept with him, or she's a fantastic actor.

No matter how badly I want her, I'm not one for seconds. I'll have to be sure before I seal the deal. I touch my neck once more, replaying the moment yet again, dick twitching at the mental image.

Fuck!

Wonder if Jenny's still here?

The crowd dwindles, the breeze blowing cooler air as late afternoon hits; typical for May weather in this area. Fewer and fewer people are around to shake my hand and offer their fake condolences. I'm polite about it—was trained well growing up. Strong eye contact, firm handshake—I'll play the part. But I don't care. I have no clue how long this is supposed to go on. I'm ready to get out of here, like now.

"Excuse me, Mr. Mayer." A short, balding man dressed in a black suit stands in front of me, poking glasses up the bridge of his nose, holding a stack of papers. I raise a brow, nodding for him to continue. "I'm Jeffrey Cleaver, William Mayer's attorney." He extends a hand, which I shake briefly—as I said, polite. "I'm not sure if you're comfortable going over the details of your father's will today? Normally, I'd allow several days to pass, but—" he rambles.