Page 8 of Unholy Night

I nodded, laughing uncontrollably now. “Fucker kept moaning every time I took a bite of my meatball.”

Rom snorted. “He screamed louder watching you eat than he did when Vance hit him.”

“I’m still convinced that’s the only reason why he talked. Fuck the blood coming out of his eyes, that asshole was starving,” Penn chimed in.

“Oh, shit that’s funny.” My stomach hurt from laughing. These were my boys. My ride or die partners in crime. And fuck, did we know how to have a good time. This business here was just a minor setback.

I clapped Roman on the back. “You’re right, man. I think we can handle one stuck-up celebrity for a few days.”

He nodded. “There you go. That’s what I like to hear. Now help me strain these noodles so we can feed her before she throws a fucking temper tantrum.”

I carried the bowl of pasta for Easton while Rom, Vance, and Penn followed with a chunk of parmesan cheese, bread, and a bottle of red wine.

And we almost dropped all of it when we entered the dining room. Her brown hair was out of its bun, messy and loose around her shoulders and down her back. With her legs propped up on the table like it was a footstool, a billow of smoke floated above her head.

My stomach sank. She was smoking my fucking cigar. The ones we were saving for when we finish this nightmare job. I must have left it on the windowsill earlier. Without thinking, I charged over, knocked her legs off the table, and yanked the exquisitely rolled Cuban out of her mouth. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

She flinched slightly but recovered quickly, throwing me a sloppy smile. “The brochure said for me to make myself at home.”

Fuck. I started forward again but Roman grabbed my arm. “Hey, relax. Miss Radleigh is right. She’s our VIP guest. Let’s not forget that.”

I clenched my fists at my sides imagining all the ways I wanted to punish her spoiled little cunt.

Penn pried the bowl of pasta out of my hands and set it down in front of her. “Here you go. Cheese?”

Easton batted her eyelashes at me like a fucking brat. “No, I don’t do dairy.”

I snatched the block of cheese off the table. “Just dairy or are you allergic to all forms of calcium?”

Vance snorted. “Damn, Z, you really wanted that cigar.”

She rolled her eyes and took a big bite of pasta. “Are you all going to stand there and watch me eat?”

“Come on, guys, let’s leave Miss Radleigh to her meal,” Roman quickly replied before it got any more fucking awkward than it already was.

As I backed up slowly, refusing to take my eyes off her, I caught a glimpse of her crossing her legs. I bet this ice-queen hasn’t been fucked properly in her entire privileged life. She wouldn’t know what to do with the four of us if she tried. That thought made me so fucking hard, it took all three of my boys to guide me back to the kitchen.

But I couldn’t resist.

I dashed back to the table and leaned over her from behind, my arms boxing her in. I felt her body shudder against me mid-chew. “If you clench your legs together any tighter,” I whispered, “you’re going to rub your pussy raw.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed her food down hard. “How fucking dare you,” she rasped back.

I breathed heavily into her ear. “Come find me if you want help… alleviating that later.”

Easton

Between the whiskey, wine, and Zander’s buttery voice, I could barely eat. I hated that he was right. I was so turned on by his whole bad boy with a chip on his shoulder act, I could hardly walk back to my room without clenching. But I did. I walked all the way up those nausea inducing, candy cane-lined stairs without a glance back.

I changed into a pair of black yoga pants and a matching tank top before plopping down on the bed with my laptop. I needed to try and write at least one more chapter tonight. But all I could think about was his breath in my ear. His hot, wine-soaked breath and the dirty words that unfurled from his lips.

A knock on the door made me jump and almost sent my laptop crashing to the floor.

Fuck.

“Seriously?” I called out as I charged to the door and yanked it open.

Zander stood in front of me with the half-eaten bowl of pasta I’d left on the table. “You didn’t finish.”

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