Chapter 5: Payback's a Bitch
The silence in the Mercedes was a physical thing, thick and humming like the engine’s subdued growl. Streetlights strobed across Xander’s profile, etching the arrogant line of his jaw in alternating bars of light and shadow. He hadn’t spoken since she’d slammed the car door at the restaurant, her mother and Arthur having left in the limousine. This drive was their own private purgatory.
Celeste watched the sprawling, manicured lawns of the Kings’ neighborhood blur past. Her body still felt the ghost of his thumb, the invasive, thrilling circles. Her pride was a raw, bleeding wound. Arthur’s ‘generous’ offer felt like a silk noose. And Xander’s smug, knowing quiet was the final insult.
Revenge was a cold, sharp stone in her gut. She didn’t just want to hurt him. She wanted to break his control, to make him as helpless and desperate as he’d made her feel under that tablecloth.
She shifted in the butter-soft leather seat, turning her body toward him. He glanced over, a faint, questioning arch to his brow.
“Forget the way?” she asked, her voice unnaturally calm.
“Just enjoying the scenery,” he replied, his eyes back on the road, but his shoulders had tightened slightly.
She let her left hand fall casually onto the center console. Then, with deliberate slowness, she trailed her fingertips across the fine wool of his trousers, resting them high on his thigh. He drew a sharp breath. The car’s speed faltered for a second.
“What are you doing, Celeste?”
“Returning the favor,” she whispered, her voice low and devoid of warmth. “You started a game at dinner. I’m just picking up where you left off.”
Her fingers began to move, a light, taunting pressure over the fabric. She felt the rigid length of him already straining against the constraint of his zipper. Good. He was hard. He’d been hard since the restaurant, maybe. The knowledge fed her fury and her power. She curled her hand, palming him through the wool, applying a firm, grinding pressure. A ragged groan tore from his throat.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
“Eyes on the road, playboy,” she said, her tone clinical even as her own pulse hammered in her ears. With her other hand, she reached for the button of his flies. The snick was loud in the quiet cabin. The zipper’s sound was a long, vulgar rasp.
She didn’t hesitate. She slid her hand inside, past the band of his boxer briefs. Her fingers closed around the hot, velvet-over-steel thickness of his cock. He was fully erect, painfully so, and a slick bead of moisture already coated the tip. She smeared it with her thumb.
Xander hissed, a curse rattling in his chest. The car swerved slightly before he corrected it, his breathing now ragged and uneven. “Celeste… god, just…”
“Just what?” she asked, squeezing him firmly at the root before beginning to stroke, her grip tight, her rhythm merciless. She used her whole hand, pumping his shaft with a rough, knowing friction. She leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear. “You like this? You like someone else calling the shots for once? You were so chatty at dinner. Now you can’t even form a sentence.”
His hips bucked up into her fist, a desperate, involuntary thrust. Pre-come slicked her palm, making filthy, wet sounds with each stroke. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart through the flesh in her hand, the tension coiling in the muscles of his abdomen. The smell of him—clean sweat, expensive cologne, and raw, salty sex—filled the car.
“I’m… Christ, I’m close,” he gritted out, his voice strained and broken. The mansion gates loomed ahead. He fumbled for the remote clicker, his movements jerky. The wrought iron slid open.
“Already?” she mocked, speeding her hand, twisting her wrist on the upstroke the way she knew would unravel him. He was panting, his head thrown back against the headrest, his eyes screwed shut. The car rolled up the long, smooth driveway, tires crunching on gravel.
He was right on the edge. She could feel it in the pulsing rigidity, the way his balls drew up tight against his body. A guttural, choked sound was building in his chest. He was seconds away from coming all over her hand and the leather seats of his precious car.
The Mercedes jerked to a stop before the grand front entrance.
Celeste’s hand stopped moving. Completely. She loosened her grip, removing all pressure, all friction, leaving her fingers just loosely encircling him.
Xander’s eyes flew open, wide with shock and insane, unbearable need. He looked at her, his face a mask of agonized confusion. “Don’t you fucking stop,” he demanded, his voice a raw snarl.
Slowly, deliberately, she withdrew her hand, wiping her glistening palm on the thigh of his ruined trousers. She held his wild, desperate gaze as she brought up her other hand, middle finger extended in a brutal, unmistakable gesture.
“Go fuck yourself, Xander,” she said, her voice ice.
She popped the door handle, slipped out into the cool night air, and slammed the door shut behind her. She didn’t look back as she walked, back straight, up the steps to the mansion. She left him there in the driver’s seat, achingly hard and brutally denied, alone in the dark with the engine’s dying hum.