Chapter 3: Suck Me Off Until I Come

Leah's POV

The party's buzzing when I hit the main floor. "There's my girl." Carson pulls me in, kissing my temple. "Feeling better?"

"Much." I lean into him, playing the part. "Thanks for being so cool about it."

"Anything for you, babe."

His college buddies swarm us, and I switch to autopilot—giggling at their lame jokes, batting my lashes, being the perfect arm candy. These preppy jerks lap it up, figuring Carson hit the jackpot.

"Dude, you're so lucky," one says, eyeing me like fresh meat. "Where'd you find this angel?"

Carson's chest puffs up. "We met at—"

"A charity gala," I cut in smoothly. "For underprivileged kids."

The lie rolls out easy. Can't let him spill the real deal—how I was working a private gig where he was hunting for some discreet fun.

As the chat drags, I notice Carson's jaw tightening, his smile getting forced. These guys are kissing his ass over his dad's clout, and it's grinding his gears.

"You should run for mayor someday," one suggests. "Follow in the old man's footsteps."

"Maybe," Carson grits out.

I can feel the frustration rolling off him. Poor guy's sick of everything tying back to daddy's name.

The group finally bails for the bar, leaving us at our candlelit table. Carson's hand slides to my thigh under the tablecloth, fingers tracing lazy patterns.

"This is all such bullshit," he mutters, slamming his whiskey. "Everyone sucking up just 'cause of my dad. I'm over it."

"You don't need their approval," I say softly, covering his hand with mine. "You're worth way more than that."

He looks at me with real gratitude, and I almost feel bad for playing him. Almost.

"You really think so?"

"Of course."

His fingers tease the edge of my panties. "You know what'd make me feel better?"

I see it coming. "Carson, we're in public—"

"Lighting's dim, tablecloth hits the floor." His voice drops. "No one'll see."

"I don't know..."

"Please, baby?" His fingers slip under the lace. "Just use your hand. I need you bad."

The desperation's pathetic, but I've learned to weaponize it. I glance around—he's right about the cover.

"Okay," I whisper, "but just this once."

I unbutton his pants under the table, wrapping around him—he's already rock hard. He stifles a groan as I start stroking slow.

"Fuck, Leah," he breathes. "You're amazing."

I keep my face neutral, nodding at passing guests. To anyone watching, we're just a couple deep in talk.

But my mind's elsewhere, clocking the power plays. These hotshots circling Carson like sharks, hungry for his dad's connections. They'd sell out for a crumb of that influence.

I flash back to my sociology prof: "Class mobility? It's inheritance or marriage. Or as I call it, 'maternal or sexual transmission.'"

I had the first back then—mayor's daughter, fancy schools, Ivy League on a platter. Now it's option two: using my body to climb back up.

Carson's breathing ramps up, hips shifting. "Faster," he whispers.

I pick up the pace, but then he grabs my breast, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"Carson—"

"Shh." He pinches my nipple through the fabric, making me wince. "You like this, right? Being my dirty secret?"

The casual edge in his voice reminds me why I'm here. This is about power—and he thinks he's got it all.

"Hey now."

Ethan's voice slices in like a knife. He's behind Carson's chair, face like thunder.

"Hands where I can see 'em, buddy."

Carson freezes but doesn't back off. If anything, he grips tighter.

"Just a private moment with my girl," Carson says coolly.

"Looks pretty public to me." Ethan's glare could burn holes. "Hand. Out."

Carson squeezes harder, pulling a gasp from me.

"Jesus, Ethan," Carson laughs. "You're tighter than a nun."

Ethan drops into the chair on my left, boxing me in. The waiter swings by with fresh drinks, and both guys grab theirs like weapons. The air's thick with testosterone.

"You liking the vibe here, sweetheart?" Carson asks, slinging an arm around me—clearly marking territory.

"It's great," I say. "Though I was hoping to meet your dad before we bounce."

"Bounce?" Carson's smile turns predatory. "To whose place?"

I duck my head, faking a blush. "I... well, maybe yours?"

Ethan slams his glass down, rattling the table.

Carson purrs with satisfaction. "That can be arranged."

"Actually," Ethan stands, "I just got off a long flight. I'm wiped. Rain check?"

"Sure, man. Don't be a stranger."

Ethan's parting stare could melt steel. As he leaves, my phone buzzes.

Unknown: You're playing with fire. Carson's not who you think. Get out while you can.

I delete it fast but don't block the number.

Carson's too busy gloating to notice.

Then, commotion at the entrance. The crowd parts, and there he is—Matthew Cole, schmoozing like the pro politician he is.

My mouth goes dry. This is it: the man who wrecked my family, twenty feet away, playing the beloved public servant.

"There's the old man," Carson says tightly. "Ready to meet the mayor?"

No, but I'll fake it.

"Lead the way."

He guides me through the crowd. Matthew's mobbed by fans, silver hair perfect, smile camera-ready.

We wait, then Carson steps up. "Dad, meet someone special."

Matthew turns, and something flickers in his eyes. Recognition? No way—I was a kid when he torched my mom's life.

"Leah Walker," I say, offering my hand with a bright smile.

He ignores it, waving over a waiter. "This wine's garbage," he booms for all to hear. "Cheap crap. Get me something that doesn't reek like welfare."

My hand hangs there. Guests shift awkwardly.

"Dad—" Carson starts.

"The wine, son. It's offensive." His eyes finally hit mine. "Almost as offensive as the company."

He knows who I am. The words land like a punch.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "You mean the vintage... or me?"

"Same thing."

The contempt's blatant. Conversations hush; eyes are on us.

This is my shot—the gamble I've built to.

I grab Carson's full wine glass and smile. "You're right."

Then I dump it over Matthew's perfect head.

The room goes silent. Red wine drips down his face, staining his shirt and shoes.

"What the hell—" he sputters.

But Carson steps in front of me, blocking his dad's rage. "That's enough. You humiliated her first."

I see it in his eyes—this is his big moment, finally telling daddy off.

The crowd laps it up. A few women sigh, probably dreaming of a guy like that.

"You insolent little—" Matthew snarls.

"What? Gonna hit me? In front of everyone? That'd make killer headlines."

Matthew's face turns purple, wine still dripping. He eyes the phones recording, then hisses, "This isn't over," and storms out.

The room erupts in whispers. Carson turns to me, eyes wild with adrenaline. "Holy shit. I can't believe you did that."

"I can't believe you backed me."

He cups my face. "I said I'd never let anyone hurt you. I meant it."

Liar. But useful.

"I should apologize," I say weakly.

"Screw that. He deserved it." Carson grins like he just won the lottery. "C'mon, let's bail."

Outside, he's buzzing as he calls for his car. "I've wanted to do that forever. You have no idea how good it felt to finally call that asshole out."

"Sorry I dragged you into it."

"Kidding? That was the highlight of my year."

A black Rolls pulls up. Carson opens the door like a gentleman, but his eyes scream hunger. The dad showdown has him wired.

He tells the driver "hotel," then raises the privacy partition.

The second we're alone, his hands are everywhere. He yanks me onto his lap, lips on my neck, fingers tugging at my dress.

"Carson, not here—"

"Why not?" His breath's hot. "I just went to war with my dad for you. Don't I get a reward?"

His hand slips between my legs, finding me slick from Ethan. The irony hits hard.

"You're soaked," he murmurs. "Been thinking about this all night?"

I hesitate, then remind him: "We can't—I'm on my period, remember?"

He threads his fingers through my hair, guiding my face toward his lap. "So use your mouth instead."