The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,14

than not knowing. I knew everything there was to learn from textbooks and webminers. But I didn’t know this. It made me feel like a kid. Like a cliché.

He laughed when it happened. When a wave of warm pleasure descended on my body, little earthquakes everywhere.

“I think you did.” He kissed me deeper, his hands everywhere on me, his thumb sliding up my torso, rubbing at my nipple under the fabric of my dress.

“Huh,” I sighed into his mouth, “La petite mort.”

He tore his lips from mine, frowning at me.

“Say what, now?”

“La petite mort,” I repeated. “A brief unconsciousness. A little death, in French. That’s what they call that beat after an orgasm, sometimes.”

My French governess had told me that. Sam’s eyes twinkled with so much delight, my chest flared with pride. His smiles were like human handprints. Each one was just different enough to be completely unique.

“You, Aisling Fitzpatrick, are a lovely torture.”

He broke our kiss. Everything was blurry, and my panties were really, really wet.

I pressed my fingertips to my lips. “Oh gosh, what did we do?”

His lips were swollen and bruised, but otherwise, he looked cool and collected.

“I assume that was rhetorical, so I’ll spare you the answer.” He was already fishing for the cigarette pack in his back pocket.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurted out.

He chuckled, a cigarette clasped between his straight white teeth. “Don’t worry about my having girlfriends. I never will.”

“Why not?”

“Because no woman is worth it, least of all one that is the spawn of a man I’d like to bleed dry of his money.”

He lit up his cigarette. His gothic, wintry gray eyes felt like ice cubes rolling down my skin.

“You know, I would never tell if we hooked up.” I swallowed my pride. Even I didn’t know why I wanted him so badly. I just knew I did. He made me feel like I was in a parallel universe whenever we were together.

“I just told you this was our last kiss.”

“But why?” I insisted.

“Because I want your father’s business.”

“I won’t tell.”

“You’re not worth the risk.” He shrugged, puffing away on his cigarette.

“There will be no risk,” I said. A voice inside me warned me that that was enough. It was her.

He doesn’t want you, mon cheri. Turn around and walk away.

But I didn’t.

So Sam looked down at me, frowning.

“Even without the risk, you’re not worth it. You are too young, too innocent, and far too sweet for me. Now do your self-respect a favor and walk away.”

But it was too late.

My pride took such a beating, I had to retaliate, even though I had absolutely no tools to do so.

“I feel sorry for you,” I said, feeling incredibly un-sorry for him, but incredibly sorry for myself.

“You do?” He smirked, humoring me. “Why?”

“Because you’re a half-literate, barely educated dropout. You probably don’t even know the multiplication table. That’s why you do what you do. You don’t have a choice.”

“You’re calling me dumb?” His smile widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You are dumb.” I tipped my chin up. “But it’s okay. You’re hot and ooze that look-at-me-I’m-dangerous vibe, so I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

“Don’t forget rich.” He snapped his fingers.

“Not by my standards,” I smiled coldly. Holy hell, it was like my mother took over my mouth. “Just try not to make conversation. You’re not very good at it.”

“Based on you dry humping my leg like a bitch in heat five seconds ago, I’m sure I’ll be able to keep them entertained some other way.”

His words were crass, but his nonchalant smile dissolved into a grim mask of coldness.

“You … you … you …”

“I’m … I’m … I’m … what?” He clapped my mouth shut by tapping his finger to my chin, smirking. “Right?”

Before I could answer, Sam vanished.

He ignored me for the rest of the evening.

Four hours later, I crawled back to my room, still in a daze from dinner.

Sam had impressed everyone with his dry wit, sharp mind, and that aura that surrounded him. The one that promised a swift yet painful death if you crossed him.

I found my finite mathematics textbook—the one I’d left open on my Queen Anne desk because I’d been stuck on the same problem for an infinite amount of time—glaring back at me.

I groaned and reached for it, about to close it.

“I’ll try solving you tomorrow. I have bigger problems to work out now.”

Like how I cannot stop obsessing over Boston’s most notorious mobster.

My hand stopped over the slick, chrome page. I blinked. The problem