Page 5 of The Wrecked One

“No. I plan on making you scream.”

I dragged her jeans down in one fast movement, then placed my hoodie on the desk for padding. This wasn’t our first time hooking up in here, but our first not needing to be quiet. I planned on taking full advantage of that.

I retrieved a condom from my wallet. Never knew when temptation would strike between us (which was often), so I always had a few on me.

Not taking my eyes off the gorgeous woman in front of me, I lowered my jeans and briefs, stroked my cock a few times, and rolled the rubber over my hard length.

“A quickie here, then much longer at your hotel room later.” I dropped to my knees and hooked her legs over my shoulders, gently pressing her back against the desk. Mya wouldn’t be able to get off fast from sex alone, but when it came to my tongue, she barely made it a minute, then she liked to ride out her orgasm on my dick.

The second I went down on her, she cried out my name and fisted my hair. She was right, though, the world did disappear when it was just us. The chaos in my head stopped.

“Now,” she panted out a few minutes later, beautifully flushed after coming. “I need you inside me. Please,” she whimpered while bucking against my face.

I shifted her legs down and stood. Bracing against the desk, I leaned forward and brought my cock to her center. The moment our eyes met, I pushed inside her, and her tits lifted as she gasped. I quietly stared at her, unexpected emotion placing me in some kind of choke hold while I thrusted in and out.

Holy fuck, I didn’t just have feelings for her.

My body tensed and my heart beat out of control as the realization barreled through me. I was already in love.

At that revelation, I now knew there was only one thing that could truly wreck me when nothing else had ever been able to do it before. What if this woman was one day incapable of loving me back?

1

OLIVER

BANGKOK, THAILAND – VALENTINE’S DAY 2025

“You’re going to break it. Do you know what you’re doing with that?” I held out my hand as Mya fumbled with the buttons on the Nikon D6 on loan to me by our employer, FYVM Media.

Whirling around to face me in front of our hotel, she shoved the camera against my chest. “You took photos of me.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” I did my best not to laugh as Mya whipped her hands to her hips, trying to stare me down. Well, more like up. I had at least six inches on the woman.

One of the friendlier valets peered our way, grinning, and I politely nodded. He didn’t need to understand English to spot the universal signs of a pissed-off woman. And my Thai only consisted of about four or five phrases, which I’d only learned to frustrate the fireball currently shooting eye-daggers at me.

Dirty phrases, full of naughty fucking words, too. Lines she blushed at whenever I whispered them into her ear. Spoken as often as possible, and only to get a rise out of her, ever since we’d arrived last week, flying in from FYVM’s Swiss headquarters. Of course, I did the same in French in Paris, in Arabic while in Yemen, and so on.

“You told me to take pictures.” I powered off the Nikon and looped the leather strap around my neck, probably looking more like a rich-dick tourist with a camera that cost over 6K than the professional photographer I was supposed to be.

She wrinkled her nose (looking far too cute), then opened her arms, playing slice-and-dice with her hands through the hot, late afternoon air.

“Did you just growl at me?” I laughed that time, then stepped aside as the same valet opened the door for us.

And yeah, we were arguing in public outside our hotel. Not ideal, but I supposed this unexpected moment wouldn’t blow our covers considering Mya was technically my boss in this undercover assignment. It made sense an uptight reporter might lecture her photographer if he was doing a shit job. Not that I’d done that. Not even close.

“I don’t growl,” she sputtered.

“Sure you don’t, butter—” I cut myself off, forgetting for a minute I wasn’t Oliver Lucas.

Removing her sunglasses, she shook her head and thanked the valet in English, then proceeded to walk ahead of me, sashaying her hips with purposeful intent (because she also liked to get a rise out of me, like below the belt).

Her sundress molded to her frame under the local humidity, clinging to her curves.

Sundresses were both a gift and a curse. Whenever Mya wore one of the three she’d packed for our undercover assignment, I always developed an unhealthy case of blue balls, and always at the worst times. Like three days earlier, when we’d been interviewing a high-profile diplomat for the story we were currently working on in Thailand.

This was our fourth major long-term assignment with FYVM, and we’d been flown all over the globe to cover their stories. Thankfully, always together, as Mya had demanded before she’d accepted the job. Not that I’d have let her go anywhere without me anyway.

“Why?” she whispered over her shoulder as we headed for the elevators. “Why’d you take photos of me? I wasn’t the subject. Those need to be deleted. No one can see them, or they might think you?—”

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