Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Seventeen

Lucy

Blake has the gall to wink. "All good, Red?"

The entire table halts their individual conversations. Six pairs of eyes are on me, waiting for a response. But I'm tapped on composure. Zero fucks left to give, and all that. I rocket out of my seat, knocking the chair to the ground, and walk as fast as I can toward the house. Concerned commentary erupts in my wake.

"Is she okay?" Mallory asks.

"Must've been the broccoli," Blake supplies.

"There's nothing wrong with broccoli, gremlin," Mason argues. "You just don't know how to swallow."

"Livvie can teach you," Aidan offers.

"With five children?" Blake quips. "This poor woman hasn't swallowed a day in her life."

Under normal circumstances, the family's rapid-fire banter would have me in stitches. But there is nothing normal about tonight. My head is spinning, my emotions are in turmoil. My mouth is drier than a hot day in hell, and my womb feels like it's going to drop out of my butt.

I need to get this toy out of me.

"Why is this house so big?" I screech in frustration, startling the caterers as I limp by the kitchen. "Bathroom!"

"Second hall on the right, sixth door on the left!" a good Samaritan hollers.

Sweat drips down my spine and wetness coats my inner thighs, but I can follow simple directions. I reach the sixth door, twisting the handle, when there's a sharp tug on the harness strapped to my torso. Squealing, I'm swung into the air and deposited over someone's shoulder. Not just anyone—I know this perfectly squeezable ass.

I kick my legs, but it gets me nowhere. "Put me down, Blake!"

"Sure thing, darling," Blake answers, continuing to walk. "In five seconds."

He opens a door at the end of the hall, shutting it behind us. Only then does he set my heels on the plush carpet. My orientation is skewed from hanging upside down, but I know this is a bedroom. Ignoring Blake, I wobble toward the Alaskan King-sized bed, sitting on the edge of the gray comforter. Modesty left the building ages ago, so I yank my dress to my hips, spread my legs, and—

Blake kneels at my feet, running his hands up my thighs. "Let me."

He rips my silk underwear clean off my body, tossing them behind him. I moan in relief when he slides the butterfly out of my battered vagina and places it on the bed beside me.

"One minute," he mutters, then rises and strides toward an ensuite bathroom.

Growling, I grab the vibrator and chuck it at his retreating form. Blake doesn't even turn around, but he manages to dodge my perfect aim with a simple tilt of his head. The silicone toy hits the wall and bounces onto the floor. I hear the sink turn on in the bathroom. My legs are too weak to hold my weight, so I'm forced to stay put.

Blake reemerges with his jacket off and a washcloth in his hands. He kneels again, swiping the warm towel between my legs and over my sex, cleaning me with focused precision. He's helping, but I won't thank him. Not when he's at fault for a majority of my condition. Instead of gratitude, I aim for insult.

"You're an asshole."

His blue eyes flick up to me, then back to his task. "You didn't respond to my text."

"I told you not to talk to me," I hiss.

"I chose not to listen."

"So, you reorganized an entire charity event to get me to your house?" I hazard a guess.