His Pawn Read online

  HIS PAWN

  EMILY SNOW

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  His Pawn

  The Playlist

  1. Graham

  2. Elle

  3. Elle

  4. Elle

  5. Elle

  6. Graham

  7. Elle

  8. Elle

  9. Elle

  10. Graham

  11. Elle

  12. Graham

  13. Elle

  14. Graham

  15. Elle

  16. Elle

  17. Elle

  18. Elle

  19. Graham

  20. Elle

  21. Graham

  22. Elle

  23. Elle

  24. Graham

  25. Elle

  26. Elle

  27. Elle

  28. Elle

  29. Graham

  30. Elle

  31. Elle

  32. Elle

  33. Graham

  34. Elle

  35. Elle

  Epilogue

  Friction

  Friction on Spotify

  1. Lucinda (Lucy) Williams

  2. Jace Exley

  3. Lucy

  4. Lucy

  5. Lucy

  6. Jace

  7. Lucy

  8. Lucy

  9. Lucy

  10. Jace

  11. Lucy

  12. Lucy

  13. Lucy

  14. Lucy

  15. Jace

  16. Lucy

  17. Lucy

  18. Lucy

  19. Lucy

  20. Jace

  21. Lucy

  22. Lucy

  23. Lucy

  24. Lucy

  25. Lucy

  26. Lucy

  27. Lucy

  28. Jace

  29. Lucy

  30. Lucy

  31. Lucy

  32. Lucy

  Epilogue

  Special sneak peek of HIS WICKED WAYS

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Emily Snow

  FOREWORD

  HIS PAWN is a full length work of fiction. Included in this edition is a special bonus book, FRICTION. His Pawn ends at 51%

  I hope you enjoy!

  HIS PAWN

  Copyright © 2018 Emily Snow

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by: HEA Press, LLC

  To my sister. Thank you for always being the voice of reason and optimism. You are the Anna to my Elsa.

  THE PLAYLIST

  “99 Problems” by Hugo

  “Hurricane” by Thirty Seconds to Mars “Fetish” by Selena Gomez “Malibu” by Miley Cyrus

  “National Anthem” by Lana Del Rey “So Fresh, So Clean” by Outkast “Revenge” by Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse “Issues” by Julia Michaels “Tom Ford” by Jay-Z

  “Me, Myself, and I” by G-Eazy and Bebe Rexha “Holy Grail” by Jay-Z and Justin Timberlake “New Americana” by Halsey “Human” by Civil Twilight “Gods and Monsters” by Lana Del Rey “Death of a Bachelor” by Panic at the Disco

  ONE

  GRAHAM

  If I had known the focal point of my night would be a waitress plunging her greedy hands down my pants, and fanning her hot breath in my ear as she whispers a laundry list of things she’s willing to let me do with her body, I would’ve stayed the fuck at my office and demanded to conduct my meeting there.

  But here I am. Inside a storage room that’s more compact than a dorm room closet because I didn’t want to make a scene when she pulled me in behind her, with what’s supposed to be a seductive grip on my dick.

  “You can put it anywhere. Everywhere. Just like the first time, Graham,” she says, batting her eyelashes invitingly. The way she bleats my name—Graaaaaaaham—grates my patience. And there’s not much of that left as it is. Taking her hands out of my pants, along with my shirt-tail, she leans against a stack of liquor boxes. Licking her lips, she slides her legs as far apart as the shorts pooled around her ankles will allow. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind since that night we messed around.”

  “I’m flattered, but I’m also not going to fuck you. That’s what it’s called, just so you know. Fucking, not messing around. Now, pull your panties back up like a big girl so you can get back to work.”

  The order flies right over her head. She wriggles her body against mine, swathing me in the overwhelming stench of whatever perfume she bathed in.

  I stiffen, but sadly, my cock doesn’t.

  “Come on, baby.” She grabs my hands, planting them on her bare ass cheeks. She pokes her bottom lip out when I don’t give them the attention she’s so desperate for. “We can do anything you want.” She emphasizes every word like she’s offering me a goddamn precious gem.

  She’s not. Been there, done that, and I’m not interested in going back for seconds.

  Women like the one grinding against me—they’re dangerous.

  Liabilities.

  I can’t afford dangerous liabilities, no matter how wet, or willing, they might be.

  Grasping her by the shoulders, I shake my head. Her pout doesn’t sway me. It makes the decision to say no twice as easy. I’m good at that—turning people down. In fact, I excel at it. “I’ll pass, but give my regards to your pussy.”

  She’s still giving me bedroom eyes when she says, “Do you want to, I don’t know, meet up after my shift or something? I live alone.”

  I groan because it’s another drop of information I could give zero fucks about. I’ve debated bills with stubborn old shits that weren’t as difficult as this woman. “I wasn’t requesting a rain check on your cunt. I was giving it a firm, and resounding, no.”

  She snaps her head back, her expression a dead ringer of a deer caught in headlights. “I swear you’re a giant ... you’re a pussy tease.” Beaming proudly at the insult, she turns away from me to adjust her clothing as I take a step back. She bends at the waist and pulls up the sparkly blue scrap of material she calls shorts, jiggling her ass to show me what I’m missing. “I hate you.”

  As much as I don’t want to see that ass go—I’m a realist, not a monk—I’ll gladly take her self-proclaimed hatred of me and move along with my night.

  “Did you hear me?” Her voice grows hysterically louder. This is why she’s dangerous. No self-control. I’m fine with not getting my balls wet in exchange for avoiding the crazed three a.m. calls, texts, and eventual claims of two pink lines on a Dollar Store stick that are bound to be on the menu for this one.

  “You. Are. A. Tease,” she shouts.

  This is a new one. In thirty-three years, I’ve been called everything from misunderstood to cold to corrupt, but this is the first time a woman has ever labeled me a tease.

  I steeple my fingers and touch them to my mouth. “You and I agreed you were a one-time thing.” I’m careful not to say we. It implies she and I are more—again, dangerous. She whirls around to glare at me, her expertly made-up face the same fiery shade as her hair. Transformers. That’s what my brother, Ben, has always called the girls that wear that much fucking Sephora. “It’s not going to happen again.”

  “But we can change that.”

  Smirking, I close the gap between us. She parts her lips in anticipation and backs herself against a metal shelf of paper towel
s. Doe-eyed with her chest heaving, she looks almost innocent, almost perfect. Moldable. But then her attempt at a seductive smile ruins it.

  “No, we can’t. For the record, though, there’s no part of you that hates me.” To demonstrate, I press a hand between her thighs, and she instantly parts her legs. I circle my palm around her clit through her shorts until she sags against me.

  “I shouldn’t. This is my job, Graham.”

  I almost laugh. Now she suddenly gives a shit about where we are, what we’re doing? It only makes me want her to come harder. Send her back to work with soaked panties and no promise of an encore. “A minute ago, you were bent over cases of vodka begging me to pound your ass. Tell the truth, you care about your job as much as I do.”

  She mutters some garbled nonsense, angles her head back, and jams her eyes together. Straining her tits against my chest, she bites the tip of her tongue as she claws at the lapels of my jacket and releases noises that would make a porn star envious.

  “I’m so close.” She moans. I consider yawning. “See. See how good we could be?”

  This time, I can’t resist chuckling. “If good is getting off in the middle of ketchup and vodka bottles through a pair of cheap shorts? Personally, I’m looking for a little more ... anything else.” Drawing my hand back, I shove it deep inside my pocket. “I’m done here. I’m sure you can finish up on your own.”

  Her eyes fly open. She shoves her palms to my chest, but it’s not enough force to budge me. I’ve got at least five inches and sixty pounds on her. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “You lost me at good and gave my fucking hand commitment issues at we.” Her mouth drops open. Apparently, she doesn’t get turned down often enough. “Don’t look so shocked.”

  “Tell me, what exactly is it that you’re looking for?” She snatches a roll of the paper towels from the shelf behind her. Ripping off several sheets, she shoves the wad down the front of her shorts. Her cheeks flush pink when I refuse to look away. “This is the second time you’ve come with me back here!”

  “You dragged me in here tonight. And there’s a reason I fucked you here the first, and only, time.” That single encounter two months ago was a mistake. I take pride in being careful, but even the most cautious are subject to a lapse in judgment. “Discretion. I needed you in your element to keep your mouth shut.”

  She seethes. “I see. Let me guess, a waitress isn’t good enough for you, Senator Delaney? Doesn’t meet your rich boy requirements? Isn’t discreet enough for your kink? Do you even know my name?”

  “No, nothing against waitresses, just you.” I make it a few steps toward the storeroom door before something soft slams into my back. I glance down at the mud red tiles to the squished roll of paper towels but don’t turn to acknowledge her. “You don’t honestly think that hurt me, do you?”

  She makes a strangled noise. “I’m looking for something heavier that won’t draw blood!”

  “Right, well, make sure you grab these before you leave.” I gesture to the paper towels on the floor. “To clean up the spot on your thigh, Janelle.”

  As I slip into the restaurant’s hall, she hisses, “I would never have voted for you.”

  Does she think I care? Grinning over my shoulder, I twist my mouth in disinterest. “Next time I’m up for election, I’m counting on you to move up to New York just to vote against me.”

  She hurls another string of shushed insults at my back as I close the door.

  Striding to my table, I push all thoughts of Janelle and her incredi-ass to the furthest corner of my mind. While I was gone, my accountant had re-ordered drinks, and I take my time downing the stout from a local brewery.

  “Did you get lost in the pisser?” Daniel asks. I regard him with a noncommittal head movement. It’s better than telling him to piss off simply for being the financial Grim Reaper. Opening a spreadsheet on his phone, he chuckles at his own joke. “I thought you’d run off on me. Looking at all these numbers can be overwhelming.”

  “Not at all. Ran into an aide I worked with a couple years ago.” I spot Janelle exiting the storage closet, a flash of red, white, and blue as she bounces over to where three women sit. I start to focus on the accountant, but one of the faces at that table stops me.

  It immediately becomes a game of which one of these things is not like the others.

  Parked between two bubbly blondes sits a young brunette, and I sense the stick up her ass from all the way across the room. I’ve been around women like her my entire life, so I can read her like a book. Or in her case, leather-bound encyclopedia. Overachiever. Practically a virgin in every way. And her sweet, dove-like heart goes from zero to sixty at the mere mention of getting fucked in any position other than missionary.

  She’s flawlessly coifed and aloof, beautiful in that old Hollywood glamour kind of way—creamy skin, pink heart-shaped lips, and the kind of curves made for hands and lips. Her eyes dart from waitress to waitress, taking in their lack of attire. I expect to see her wrinkle her upturned nose, but she surprises me.

  She smiles at one, expression eager to please.

  Once the waitress’s back is turned, the brunette’s shoulders bow. She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth and smooths the loose black waves framing her delicately boned features and resting against a pair of tits even I find impressive. If she’s trying to hide them under her prude gray dress, she’s doing a shit job. When she fidgets with her pearls, I realize why she made me do a triple take.

  I know her.

  No, I’ve seen her. Know of her. But I sure as hell know her father—Robert Courtney, the senator from Virginia. The motherfucker that, come next election, will undoubtedly be POTUS because shit always floats to the top.

  She isn’t drinking, isn’t eating, and from the look of things, not saying a word to the blondes sitting with her. So why is Eleanor Courtney at a place like 202 on a Friday night?

  “Are you ready to go over these figures?” Daniel’s voice bumps into my thoughts, temporarily drawing my focus from the woman who has inadvertently captured it.

  “First, food. We can at least have dinner before you bend me over, can’t we?” At my impatient smile, he stammers a response he thinks will make me happy before excusing himself to the restroom. With him gone, I flag down the nearest waitress. She greets me with a sultry pose and a shimmery pout. I disregard both and order the first thing on the appetizer menu before casually inquiring about the table across the room.

  She flips her hair over her shoulder and giggles. “Oh, they’re here for an interview. I swear Chad’s the only guy I’ve ever worked for that interviews during Friday night dinner rush. Whatever, right? I mean, he’s the boss.” She grips her serving tray closer to her chest and winks. “You sure there’s not anything else I can get you?”

  “Just the”—I lower my gaze to the menu and curl my lip at what I’ve just ordered—“Dill Clinton Chips.”

  Fuck, who thought of these names?

  She purses her lips and shifts her weight between her feet. “No problem, I’ll be back with your order in a few.”

  Waiting on Daniel to return, I think hard on this new information. The wheels of my brain accelerate at an alarming pace. If Eleanor is interviewing for a waitressing position, things must be crumbling in the Courtney household. So badly that Senator Courtney’s sweet precious is gung-ho about climbing into tiny shorts and prancing around for tips. I’m as giddy as a kid on Christmas when she rises to her feet, brushes that shapeless wool monstrosity over her body, and turns in my direction.

  As expected, her walk is elegant and refined, her boring nude heels clapping intently on the tiles as she follows Janelle toward the back of the restaurant near where I’m seated. What I don’t anticipate is the reaction my dick has to her. It’s a response the redhead failed to inspire, and I need to know more. Need to feel more.

  I need to meet Eleanor.

  The nearer she gets, the easier it is to picture her on her knees, her mouth wrapped aro
und my cock, her legs spread wide for me. That uptight elegance shattered into hundreds, thousands, of tiny pieces while she begs me to fuck her speechless.

  Janelle passes me by, jutting her breasts out to show me what I’ve turned down, but I tune her out when Eleanor Courtney’s eyes lock on to mine. Crystal blue. So big, so trusting.

  This shitter of a night just took a turn for the best.

  She’s perfect.

  And if there’s anything to bring Robert Courtney and everything he pretends to stand for down a notch—or ten—I’m looking right at her.

  My ace in the hole.

  The perfect pawn.

  TWO

  ELLE

  My father would crap a brick if he could see me right now. And then, he’d want to stone me with said brick for dressing like something straight out of the Sports Illustrated Fourth of July edition.

  Of course, Dad’s actual response would be much, much different because there’s that pesky matter of appearances. He would claim, in a low, reserved voice, that I’m out to destroy his image, and then he’d throw me his jacket and tell me to cover myself. All while smiling for the cameras that seem to pop up out of nowhere whenever he walks into a room.

  I tug on the front of the white and red tank top hugging my breasts like heavy-duty cling wrap. “I don’t care what he thinks,” I say. But I still overanalyze myself in the mirror. I’ve opted for minimal makeup—tinted moisturizer, mascara, and a dab of sheer lipgloss—so one of the barest versions of myself peeks back. “I will not bring that man to work with me.”

  No matter how uncomfortable I feel.

  As if on cue, my pint-sized roommate saunters past the tiny bathroom we share, dressed in full eighties attire—fluorescent pink-and-platinum side ponytail, neon yellow leg warmers over black leggings, and a slouchy fuchsia sweatshirt. When she sees me stressing over my reflection, she backtracks, props her shoulder against the doorframe, and releases a long wolf whistle.

  “Damn, Elle. You’re giving me a lady-boner.” She cups her breasts with both hands and pouts dramatically. “And I’m totally jealous of the way you look in that shirt. Here I am the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee and you’re all red, white, and boobed.”