In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Caine: Hey, do you know what club the girls are at?
Paris: Yeah, they're at Acid.
Caine: Acid? Sunny's looking for me to punish her, isn't she? You're okay with Reagan being there unsupervised?
Paris: Relax, man. She's fine. She doesn't need a babysitter. She's young and having fun, and she was smiling when she left. I'll do a lot to keep that smile on her face.
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REAGAN STUMBLES INTO THE apartment at three in the morning, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't stay up waiting for her. Well, me and the demon cat both. He's curled up on the sofa beside me and hasn't so much as hissed at me since I sat down and put the TV on. I think we've found common ground for now, or at least where our girl is concerned. I watch her from my seat on the sofa as she tries to take her shoes off by the door and nearly falls. She giggles into her hand, and it reminds me of wind chimes, melodic and airy sounding. The breath stutters out of my chest because apparently I'm even attracted to her fucking laugh.
She stops in her tracks when she sees me, hazel eyes widening slightly. She took out her ponytail sometime during the night, and her hair is a curly lion's mane hanging down her back. My eyes trail over that tight dress sticking to her body and I bite the inside of my cheek just thinking about every little boy who's had the privilege of touching her tonight. I think back to her drunken text messages and I have to grit my teeth, so I don't go over there and get her. I knew she was innocent, but I didn't believe it was to this extent. She's twenty and in college. You do a lot of dumb shit, and you experiment when you're twenty and in college. But Reagan's different, when I look at her, I see a glimpse of what I can only describe as absolute purity, as if she carries something in her soul that's still immaculate, still untainted. Even after everything she's been through. I force air down my nose and sit back on the sofa, waiting to see what she'll do.
“Hey,” she says, giving me a lopsided grin that nearly takes my breath away. She walks over to me, wobbling only once before crawling into my lap like she belongs there and wrapping her hands around my neck, surrounding me with the smell of Jasmines. I shift her lower on my lap, so she doesn't feel how fucking hard I am for her.
“You're drunk, Princess,” she holds up her thumb and forefinger to show me the minuscule distance between them.
“A little,”
“How did you get home?” if she says she drove herself home, I'm going to spank her ass red.
“An Uber,” I breathe a sigh of relief and the tension leaves my body. I still don't like the idea of her taking an Uber home at three in the morning, and when she's sober we'll have a lengthy discussion about it.
“Good girl. Now let's get you to bed,”
“No, not yet. I want to stay here with you,”
“This can't happen yet, Reagan,”
“Why not?” She breathes in my ear, moving her hips almost involuntarily. Writhing on my lap, “I feel perfect Paris, like nothing matters,”
“You're drunk, and you don't know what you're doing. We'll talk about this tomorrow. You need to go to your room and sleep it off,”
“Aren't you tired of telling me no? No, Reagan. No, Princess. No, Amore mio. Tell me yes, for once,”
“Go to your room, Reagan,”
“Don't you think I'm hot?”
“I think you're delectable, downright edible. Go. To. Your. Room,”
“Make me,” she says, looking at me with a glimmer of mischief dancing in the eyes I can't seem to look away from. I grip her chin in my hands, and she stops moving, giving me her undivided attention.
“Brats get punished, Reagan. Don't you want to be my good girl?” She nods her head earnestly, so effortlessly submissive and because I can't seem to help myself, I drag my thumb over her pouty lower lip. I shouldn't be doing this, indulging in a fantasy that can't happen while she's three sheets to the wind, but I'm helpless where she's concerned. I'm so tired of pretending like I don't want to slowly explore her body and see what she tastes like straight from the source.
“Hey Paris? If I wasn't so drunk right now, what would you do?”
“If I tell you, will you go to bed?” She nods her head and her bouncy curls go flying everywhere. I lightly wrap my hand around her throat, watching as her pupils dilate. I'm painful hard under the seam of my pants. “I'd fuck you, Reagan. I'd finally take that sweet pussy and make it mine, but first I'd play with it. I'd eat it, make sure you're good and ready for me,” she buries her head in the crook of my neck, and it's damp and hot where she breathes.
“Hey, Paris?”
“Yes, love,”
“I want you to touch me now,”
“Not yet, Reagan,” I whisper, we're both breathing hard, our chests moving against each other. I can feel the tension between our bodies, the anticipation, a preamble to something bigger. She looks at me with a plea in her eyes, but I'm not doing anything while she's drunk.
“Hey, Paris?”
“Yes, love,”
“I think fucking you would be really, really good for me,” she whispers near my ear and despite being painfully turned on, a laugh bubbles out of my throat.
“Okay. Bed now, Princess,” I stand up from the sofa to walk us to her room, and she squeals, her hands gripping the back of my neck and her legs wrapping around my waist. The position presses her directly against my erection, and I can't stop the groan from slipping past my lips. I stand there for a second, holding her against me and breathing in that fucking addicting smell. The demon cat uncurls himself from his ball, stretches, and makes his way into Reagan's room. I take a deep breath and follow him, sweeping some clothes onto the floor and laying her down in her bed before tucking her in. She pulls the sheets up under her nose and looks at me with wide eyes. It's disarmingly adorable, and I have to stop myself from kissing her.
“Hi,” she whispers, giving me a cute crooked smile. She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and I shake my head.
“Hi, yourself,”
“Can you make me an avocado sandwich, please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?”
“An avocado sandwich?” I ask, caressing the side of her face with the back of my hand and enjoying the subtle warmth of her skin beneath my touch. “Uh huh, an avocado sandwich,” she agrees, turning her face into my hand. I feel the shiver that runs down her spine, and she exhales a contented sigh and then a sound that's reminiscent of a cat's purr.
“Okay. I'll make you an avocado sandwich after you drink water,” she pouts but nods her head.
“Okay,”
I get her a glass of water from the kitchen and make sure she drinks the entire glass before she curls back up into her sheets. A second later, she's out like a light, with the demon cat sleeping curled up at the bottom of her bed. I get her another glass of water, and a packet of Tylenol, and leave them both on her bedside table. She's not going to enjoy that hangover in the morning. Later, when I'm alone in my room, I think about how good her legs felt wrapped around me, how fucking perfect. I think about how I've fucked women before, but I've never once gotten this feeling with any of them, not even with Lauren. This need to have her, to possess her, to make her mine.
I think about making Reagan Sinclair my little submissive.
