Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed.
After slipping into the Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, Mom did my makeup with practiced hands. She'd trained as a makeup artist years ago, and even now, she knew exactly how to enhance someone's features with just a few subtle touches.
When she finished, she stepped back, studying my reflection with a satisfied smile. I barely recognized myself. I'd always been the pretty one among my friends, but under Mom's skilled fingers, I looked almost ethereal—delicate, polished, breathtaking.
Then Mr. Ethan Roland showed up in his Brioni tuxedo, and the moment he saw me, he let out a low whistle. "Damn, Vivian. You're gonna kill me looking like that."
I shot him a glare, my chest tightening. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he'd rejected me—now here he was, acting like nothing had happened while dragging me to some high-end club.
The Platinum Lounge was exactly what I expected: all gilded surfaces and dim lighting, filled with wealthy men and women who clung to them like expensive accessories. Ethan played the perfect gentleman, holding the door, guiding me inside with a possessive hand on my waist.
"Behave tonight, sweetheart," he murmured.
I stayed silent.
We were ushered into a private room packed with strangers—men in tailored suits with women draped over them, laughing too loud, hands wandering. Ethan lounged beside me like he owned the place, drink in hand, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin while I sat stiffly, my fists clenched in my skirt.
Then the door opened.
And there he was—the man from last night.
Humiliation crashed over me like a wave. My lips stung where I bit down, my vision blurring with unshed tears. His gaze locked onto me instantly, tongue swiping over his lips before he smirked, slow and predatory.
Ethan checked his phone and stood. "Stay here. I'll be right back."
The second he left, the man was on me, shoving his phone in my face while his other hand slid up my thigh. I shuddered but didn't—couldn't—push him away.
On the screen: last night. Me. Drunk. Helpless.
"Look at you now, all cleaned up," he purred. "How about we pick up where we left off, huh?"
Tears spilled over. My fear only seemed to fuel him—his grip tightened, fingers digging into my skin as he tugged at my skirt—
Then the door slammed open.
I looked up, desperate.
And standing in the doorway were two Ethan Rolands.
When she finished, she stepped back, studying my reflection with a satisfied smile. I barely recognized myself. I'd always been the pretty one among my friends, but under Mom's skilled fingers, I looked almost ethereal—delicate, polished, breathtaking.
Then Mr. Ethan Roland showed up in his Brioni tuxedo, and the moment he saw me, he let out a low whistle. "Damn, Vivian. You're gonna kill me looking like that."
I shot him a glare, my chest tightening. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he'd rejected me—now here he was, acting like nothing had happened while dragging me to some high-end club.
The Platinum Lounge was exactly what I expected: all gilded surfaces and dim lighting, filled with wealthy men and women who clung to them like expensive accessories. Ethan played the perfect gentleman, holding the door, guiding me inside with a possessive hand on my waist.
"Behave tonight, sweetheart," he murmured.
I stayed silent.
We were ushered into a private room packed with strangers—men in tailored suits with women draped over them, laughing too loud, hands wandering. Ethan lounged beside me like he owned the place, drink in hand, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin while I sat stiffly, my fists clenched in my skirt.
Then the door opened.
And there he was—the man from last night.
Humiliation crashed over me like a wave. My lips stung where I bit down, my vision blurring with unshed tears. His gaze locked onto me instantly, tongue swiping over his lips before he smirked, slow and predatory.
Ethan checked his phone and stood. "Stay here. I'll be right back."
The second he left, the man was on me, shoving his phone in my face while his other hand slid up my thigh. I shuddered but didn't—couldn't—push him away.
On the screen: last night. Me. Drunk. Helpless.
"Look at you now, all cleaned up," he purred. "How about we pick up where we left off, huh?"
Tears spilled over. My fear only seemed to fuel him—his grip tightened, fingers digging into my skin as he tugged at my skirt—
Then the door slammed open.
I looked up, desperate.
And standing in the doorway were two Ethan Rolands.
End of Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to Forbidden Lesson in Mother’s Bed book page.