Why does that sound sexual? And why do those jeans make me want to drink him? Raiden was once a member of my family. He might not have been my real brother, but we were like best friends. It might have been nearly two decades since we were those kids, but it hasn’t erased the weirdness I feel at actually being attracted to him.
I’m no longer in self-denial. I know it’s true, if even just on a basic biological level. I have eyes. I have ovaries. I have hormones. I have lady parts, and they’re all functioning at the optimum level. Basic biology says that if someone has good genetics (symmetry, athleticism, and absurd general hotness) and could be a good provider (the fact that Raiden is worth billions), they’re a good potential mate. This is real science, I think. Or something like that. It totally explains why the black lace thong I wore, which is the only pair of thongs I own, is suddenly damp. Alright, so it’s closer to being soaked.
Science never was my friend. I barely passed grade twelve biology and physics.
“Fine,” I squeak. I swallow hard to get my voice back under control. “I’ll have a drink.”
“Wine, beer, coolers, slushy blend, something mixed, bloody—”
“Whisky.”
“With soda?” Raiden at least tries to hide his amusement.
I’m not trying to be cute here. My dad taught me how to drink when I turned twenty-one. He said a few shots of whisky go a long way, and so do a couple of glasses of water, knowing when to stop, and always calling a cab. To this day, I’ve never had a hangover, I’ve never been so drunk I couldn’t trust my own judgment, and I’ve never been in one of those situations I can’t undo.
“Straight up.”
Raiden can’t even contain his glee. His shit-eating, smug, billion-dollar, white-toothed grin is back. I’m torn between wanting to punch him in the teeth and trying to lick them. Biology? It’s a bitch.
“Perfect. Coming right up. Have a seat in the living room.”
I hate that he issues orders and then casually walks away like he just dropped some inside joke I’m not a part of and never will be, although it’s something I will still bust my lady balls trying to figure out.
I comply with his demands and enter the massive room immediately off the entrance. It’s literally the size of four of my small, one-bedroom apartment put together. There are two super expensive-looking, sleek, black leather couches in there. They’re four-seaters, and they look weird. Most probably custom made. One side is just filled with impressive floor to strangely sloped ceiling windows, and there’s a huge painting on the far side of the wall that is completely black with a white slash of paint across it.
I bet it cost a million dollars or some atrocious amount.
There’s no coffee table or TV, rug, chairs, or toss cushions. It’s just this massive room with the two sofas, the painting, and the windows. It kind of freaks me out.
I sit down carefully on the sofa, not because I don’t want to wreck anything, but because I didn’t take my black heels off at the door, and between them and the tight dress that I’m worried about splitting when I sit, I’m at an awkward height and angle. I have to keep my legs jammed together to keep from revealing the aforementioned black lace thong, and even with my knees jammed up painfully, I still feel like it’s showing.
While I wait for Raiden to reappear, a plan comes to me.
It’s sinister, evil, and dirty in more than one way. It might even be underhanded, depending on what kind of underhanded we’re talking about.
Raiden made me come here. This is just an exercise in control for him. He’s a shithead because he can be. Because for him—a guy who has everything—it’s fun to torture those who are weaker and smaller. He doesn’t give a shit about what I do at the company. He probably doesn’t even care about the company except for what it can do for him and how much money it will make him. He didn’t ask me here because he cares or wants to know about my past.
He’s called Ruthless Raiden for a reason.
The guy dates models, artists, and actresses, and he cycles through them faster than you can microwave a damn hot dog, which was something we used to do all the time when we were kids. Especially when our parents were too busy fighting to worry their kids hadn’t had anything to eat all day.
Damn it. I will not think about that. I will not.
What I will think about is getting the heck out of here. I will quit, and it will not endanger anyone else’s jobs. I will not let Raiden get away with it or make me feel guilty. I will leave, and I will get as far away from him as I can, and I will do everything in my power to help whatever competition out there in whatever way I can. He brought me here because he thought he could toy with me, and it pisses me off.
It pisses me off so bad—and I’m already steaming from the fact that my body betrays me in every way possible as soon as I even get a glimpse of Raiden in person—I’m even willing to entertain devious thoughts that the nice, honest, and easygoing me would never, ever consider.
Such as thoughts about spilling all of Raiden’s past secrets. I know a few good magazines or newspapers that would probably give me quite a nice chunk of cash to get them. Maybe I can convince him to forget about me the way he has for the past eighteen years.
Before I can ruminate and plot any further, Raiden stalks back into the room, two glasses in one
