I don’t know what to do with Hadrian’s attempts to be cute, other than ignore them. “I can’t. What will you do? I’m not leaving you to walk three miles.”
He looks at me like I’ve said something insane. “I’m not suggesting I walk three miles.”
“Good.”
“I’m riding the horse along with you.”
“Oh, no. No. That’s. I’ll just.” I make the mistake of picturing it—me sitting behind him, my arms around his middle, my face p**ssed against his back—and I feel my face flush. “Which way to the house?”
He studies me before answering. “That way.” He jerks his head to the left. “But I doubt you’ll make it before that storm.”
As if on cue—because obviously even the heavens answer to Seymour command—thunder rumbles in the distance.
Well, shit.
“Come on, Brystin. It’s a long walk, but it’s a short ride. Hop up.” Without warning, his hands come down on my waist, directing me where to stand, and even through the thin layer of my tank and the thickness of his leather gloves, I feel heat. The kind of heat that happens low in the belly. The kind of heat that leads to trouble.
Yeah, this is a real bad idea.
But considering how I have no good excuse, it’s also a bad idea to refuse. Just for different reasons.
“Okay. Sure.” He helps me put my foot into the holster, and I try not to think about the way his hands linger on my ass when he helps push me up to the saddle. Instantly, my shorts are riding up my b**t crack. “I should have worn jeans.”
The comment only draws Hadrian’s attention to my legs, but he misinterprets my reasoning. “I’m sure I’ll keep you warm.”
“That wasn’t. I meant.” Do I really want to explain what’s happening with my pa**ies? It doesn’t help that now I have goosebumps sprouting down my skin. From the attention, not the cold. “Okay.”
I’m burning from embarrassment, but yeah, okay.
And then Hadrian climbs on the horse—not in front of me, but behind me. On a saddle meant for one. “Oh.”
“It will be a tight fit.” His body practically encases me. His arms come around my center, his th**hs hug my h*ps, and since I’m sure he intended the double entendre, my mind is so completely in the gutter. “But we’ll make it work.”
Make it work means that I’m pretty much sitting on him. I try to adjust, moving myself forward so that my weight is on my th**hs, but he pulls me back against him. “You’re good like this,” he says. His words are hot at my ear, and he was right—if I was cold before, I’m definitely not now.
“Are you sure? You can’t be comfortable.” I squirm, trying to somehow make more room.
“Brystin. I’m good.” His voice is even deeper than usual. “Trust me.”
Then I feel it.
I feel exactly how good he is. How blessed he is, anyway, because I’m pretty damn positive that the bulge against my ass has grown. A lot.
All that money and power and God thought Hadrian Seymour also needed a big dick.
Life is officially not fair.
With a tsk, Hadrian starts Knight toward the house at a fast walk, and I try not to breathe, afraid any movement will encourage the party in Hadrian’s pants. It’s a short ride. He hasn’t technically tried anything. All I’m doing is sitting close. Really close. If that makes a rich man happy enough to give me a shot at national television, I can live with that.
Right?
Except then he wants to talk as well. “You told me why you chose a walk over horse riding. You weren’t up for tennis?”
He doesn’t mention Elvis, but I hear the subtextual ask. “It’s not my sport, if I’m honest.”
“Perhaps you need a less vicious opponent.”
I’m not sure if Hadrian has actually witnessed Elvis’s game or if he’s guessing. “I’m sure you’re not volunteering.”
He chuckles, his ch*st rumbling against my backside with the sound. “You don’t think I’d be a good match?”
I answer honestly. “I imagine you obliterate anyone who steps up against you in anything.”
“Fair assessment.” A beat goes by. “I was actually suggesting my sister Adly. She’ll be around in the morning, if you want to play.”
“Thank you, I’ll consider it.” I won’t, but it was decent of him to offer. Though, I have a feeling the conversation was an attempt at feeling something out about my relationship with Elvis rather than an honest inquiry about tennis.
Or maybe that’s some bizarre bit of wishful thinking.
“You weren’t interested in the movie?”
“Gatsby in Manhattan? No. Definitely, definitely no.” I don’t bother to hide my disdain for the Rudy Winter film. “You couldn’t pay me to watch it. Or I suppose you could, but only if I get to deliver a brutally honest criticism afterward.”
“Not a fan of Winter?”
“God, no.” This is good—talking about something I’m passionate about is a good distraction from what’s happening beneath me. “I mean, he’s a creative genius. He hires the best, or at least, brings out the talent in the people he works with, but every single film he directs is decidedly problematic. His female characters are always young bimbos. The romantic heroes are always twenty-plus years older than the women.”
Realizing that description could be used to describe my relationship with Elvis, I hurry to share other issues. “I don’t think he’s ever passed the Bechdel test. He’s a slut shamer while his male leads are unabashedly promiscuous. He frequently reduces female worth to how often they’re willing to forgive the shit men who use and abuse them over and over and over again. Don’t even get me started on how he behaves on set. The work itself is some of the most blatant displays of misogyny in present Hollywood, and I’ll never understand how it continues to get rewarded and awarded every single Oscar season. It’s disgusting.”
Hadrian is silent when I’ve finished my rant, and it occurs to me that there is probably a reason why he has an early copy of a yet to be released film. “I’m sorry. He’s probably your best friend or your uncle or something.”
“You assume because you have the same criticism about me?”
“No! No. No. Sorry. No.” I let out an awkward laugh. “I meant because you have a copy. I figure you have to know someone.”
“I do know someone. Lots of someones.” I feel his breath along my neck, and I have to try hard not to shiver in front of him. “In this case, I know the president of the distributor. They send me everything early. I have no formal acquaintance with Rudy Winter.”
“Thank God. I apologize for almost calling you a misogynist.”
“No worries,” he says. But his tone has a hint of mockery. It’s a tone I’ve encountered in my work, and I’m sure he’s holding something back.
The fun part is figuring out what.
“Let me guess, you don’t think misogyny is a problem in our culture, do you, Hadrian Seymour?” f**k, the guy was probably one of those men who believed in reverse sexism too.
“Hatred of women? Sure. Sometimes.” A conveniently vague answer.
“But you don’t think that it’s as big of an issue as many of those angry feminists seem to make it out to be.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.
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