Mr Holt
I pulled my hand back from her jaw, but the heat of her skin stayed burned into my fingertips.
Disgusting.
I looked down at her, my chest rising and falling in heavy, controlled breaths. She stood trapped between my frame and the mahogany desk, her chin tilted up, her chest heaving beneath that ridiculous, high-necked corporate blouse. She had scrubbed the paint off her face and pulled her hair into a knot so tight it looked painful, but it didn't change what she was.
Elizabeth Monroe. A spoiled, reckless upper-class brat playing dress-up in her aunt’s office.
My blood was boiling, thick and hostile, hammering against my temples with a violence I hadn't felt in years. I hated her type. I hated the desperate, manipulative climb of women who used their skin as currency. But as
