Chapter 5: Use her Thong come hard

Asher's POV

Three in the morning.

I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, convinced I'd completely lost my mind.

The scene in the locker room kept replaying like some virus I couldn't purge — her ice-cold stare, the pale expanse of her bare skin, and the memory of her hand closing over mine, pressing my fingers against her chest.

"Fuck."

I swore under my breath and sat up hard, grabbing the bottle of cold water off the nightstand and drinking half of it in one go.

It didn't help.

The second I closed my eyes, I could still smell her — that faint, maddening scent that clung to her skin.

I've known Serena for over a decade. As Julian's best friend, I'd spent half my summers at the Kincaid estate. In every memory I had of her, she was the same: chin lifted, eyes sharp with that particular look she reserved for people she considered beneath her — the Kincaid princess in her natural habitat.

I hated that condescending act. I hated how she was always so goddamn perfect.

But what I hated most was the way my body responded every time she looked at me like that — that cold, dismissive glance that made me want to shove her against a wall and tear that flawless composure apart piece by piece.

When I found out she wasn't Julian's real sister, I thought my moment had finally come.

I told myself I was going to make things right — for Julian, for Chloe. I was going to put this pretentious princess in her place and watch her beg.

And instead?

My gaze drifted to the balcony door.

Two hours ago, I'd been standing over the bathroom sink, holding that pair of underwear up to my face like a goddamn freak. Her scent was still in the fabric — warm, sweet, obscenely intimate.

"Jesus Christ…"

The word came out low and wrecked. My legs were barely holding me up against the edge of the counter, and the situation below my waistband had gone from bad to painful — hard and insistent, tenting the front of my sweats in a way I couldn't ignore.

I squeezed my eyes shut. The image behind them was immediate and merciless: Serena in that locker room, thighs parted, taking my hand and guiding it exactly where she wanted it.

I shoved my sweats down and wrapped my hand around myself — already burning hot, embarrassingly desperate. I balled the thong in my other fist and dragged the thin lace across the most sensitive part of me, and started working myself in long, rough strokes.

I had made Julian a promise. I was supposed to make this woman pay for everything she'd done — every lie, every stolen year, every moment of suffering she'd caused Chloe. Julian was my brother in every way that mattered. I was supposed to be on his side.

And here I was.

If Julian could see inside my head right now, I thought, jaw clenched, he'd bury me.

"Serena—"

Her name scraped out of my throat in a half-bitten groan, swallowed by the empty bathroom walls.

I kept telling myself to stop. To think clearly. This was Serena — the woman who'd stolen another girl's life without a second thought. Julian's most hated enemy. Someone I was supposed to despise.

But my hand only moved faster. The lace dragged hot and delicate against my shaft, and I sank into the filthy fantasy I had no right to want — her, tight and slick and clenching around me, pulling me deeper—

"Ah—"

The sound I made wasn't something I'd repeat in daylight. I came hard, whole body locking up, release hitting me in long, shuddering waves before the high collapsed into something hollow and ugly.

I stood there for a moment, staring down at the wreck in my hands.

You are a sick bastard, I thought. An absolute, irredeemable sick bastard.

I turned the tap to cold and spent the next several minutes washing the small scrap of fabric with a thoroughness that bordered on obsessive — three full rinses, hands going numb under the ice water while my palms still felt like they were on fire.

Then I dried it. Folded it neatly. And like the complete idiot I apparently was, I slipped it back into her room before I could talk myself out of it.

I had to be losing my mind.

Early morning, I'd just changed into my practice gear when I heard a few teammates huddled in the corner, laughing lewdly.

"Holy shit, that body's insane."

"She usually dresses so conservative, didn't expect her to be so hot under those clothes. Look at those legs..."

"She owes three million now, heard she's even doing maid work. You think if we pay up, we could get her to try on our jerseys too?"

I frowned and walked over, snatching the phone from one guy's hand.

On the screen was a viral post on Blackwood's forum.

In the photo, Serena was wearing my jersey, her long pale legs exposed, walking out of the hockey rink.

Someone had clearly snapped it from the parking lot.

My head exploded with a buzzing sound.

"Captain, did you hook up with her last night?" The guy was still grinning stupidly. "How was it? Is a fake heiress more wild than those socialites..."

The thought of every bastard on campus seeing her like that, imagining what I'd seen last night, made something snap inside me.

I didn't say a word, just grabbed him by the collar and slammed him to the ground.

The loud crash silenced the entire locker room instantly.

"C-Captain..." He was terrified, stammering as he looked up at me.

"Say it again. I dare you."

"I... I was just joking..."

"Shut your mouth." I warned through gritted teeth. "Anyone makes another joke about her, I'll break his jaw. Got it?"

I let him go, threw the phone at his chest, and stormed out of the locker room.

It wasn't until I was outside that I realized what I'd just done.

I was protecting her? I was actually protecting that woman?

I grabbed my hair in frustration. I was supposed to hate her.

But just thinking about other guys looking at her that way made me want to gouge out their eyeballs.

I pulled out my phone and opened the contact with no name saved.

My fingers hammered at the screen so hard I nearly cracked it. Then I typed the one thing I never thought I'd say to her.

---

Serena's POV

"Don't go to tonight's charity auction."

Morning, macroeconomics lecture. I was walking into the lecture hall when my phone vibrated in my pocket.

The room was packed, but as I made my way down the aisle, students shifted away, leaving a wide circle of empty seats around where I'd sit. Everyone was looking at me strangely, whispers buzzing in my ears like flies.

I opened the thread. The top post was pinned by the moderators, announcing tomorrow night's charity auction. Volunteers needed. Compensation structure clearly outlined: thirty percent of the winning bid.

Below that, the comments had already devolved into a feeding frenzy.

"Seriously? She's been away from the Kincaids for like three days and she's already this desperate for men?"

"Fake is fake. Played princess for eighteen years but she's trash underneath."

"Asher's standards must be rock bottom. Fine to mess around with girls like her, but don't catch feelings."

"I heard she owes the Kincaids a ton of money. No wonder she's trying so hard."

I scrolled through expressionlessly. Then an anonymous comment appeared, quickly getting pushed to the top by upvotes.

"Think she'll volunteer for the auction tomorrow? She's broke enough. Bet she'd sell herself for pocket change."

The replies were full of mockery.

"If she shows up, I'll bid one dollar."

"One dollar's too much. Fakes should be discounted."

"Don't say that. She used to be a Kincaid princess. She's worth at least the price of a glass of champagne."

I stared at that pinned post about the auction. Volunteers get thirty percent of the sale price. I read it again, then locked my phone.

Thirty percent. That was no small amount.

I didn't bother acknowledging them, just opened the messages.

"Those people don't have good intentions. They just want to see you embarrassed."

"If you need money, you can talk to me."

I looked at the screen and raised an eyebrow.

Asher Hays.

This rabid dog had learned to show concern?