Page 39 of Milo

More moans. Panting. Screaming. The slapping of flesh against flesh. Wanton mewls from his girlfriends, his dominating wife.

I bite my lip, squirming on the couch, my panties, despite my best efforts, soaked. The pressure in my core is building up, begging to be touched, dying to be released.

"Enjoying yourself?"

My eyes spring open, the stem of the wine glass in my hand nearly snapping in half.

Fuck.

Milo stands on the opposite end of the coffee table, arms crossed, the setting sun reflecting off his aviators. "You look—" He slides his sunglasses to the tip of his nose. "Uncomfortable."

Setting the wine on the table, I pause the audio. Remain calm. He knows nothing. "I'm fine. Just uh—doing my job."

"Oh?" Milo smirks, circling the table toward me. Oh no. Oh god, what is he doing? "Anything to report?"

I shake my head and cross my legs, moisture spreading between my thighs. "Nope. Nothing to report. He hasn't mentioned the Russians at all."

"Interesting…” Milo lowers himself onto the couch beside to me, nodding toward the screen. "Let's listen to the rest together, yes?"

My heart rate accelerates. Together? He wants us to listen to that...together? No way. Not happening. I'll die. I will literally drop dead.

"I'm almost finished.” I tilt my body away from Milo but he sidles closer to me, the gritty texture of his jeans rubbing against my bare thigh. "It's not a two-person job. I got it. You—" I clear my throat. "I don't need you."

Milo expels a dark knowing chuckle. "It was not a request, Kiara.” He unplugs the headphones, his index fingers hovering over the spacebar. He licks his lips. "What's wrong, Bella? You look nervous."

"Me?" I take a giant gulp of red wine. "Nope. Not at all. I'm fine."

"Good.” He holds my gaze as he slowly, so fucking slowly, presses play on the recording.

Instantly, needy panting mixed with Spanish pleas fills our ears.

We sit there for several excruciating minutes before Milo opens his mouth.

"What is she saying?" Milo asks in a husky tone. "Translate for me, Kiara."

This conniving little bastard.

"Use your imagination.”

"I'm afraid I'm not a very imaginative person," he says, a cunning smile on his face, "tell me what she's saying, Kiara.” He pauses. "Verbatim.”

I press my lips into a thin line. "I can’t…” My entire body burns up from the erotic noises booming from the speaker. Corrosive sexual magnitude radiates off Milo's body, fueling my desperate desire to be touched. “I?—”

"This is your job, Kiara.” He grazes my cheek with the back of his hand. "This is why you are not dead yet. Tell me what she is saying."

Why do they talk so much during sex? Why can't they be those silent couples that barely say a word? Fucking chatty Europeans.

"Translate, Kiara. Now."

I close my eyes. I hate him. I fucking hate him.

"Fuck me," I whisper in a monotone voice. "Harder. Yes, oh God, yes."

"Keep going, Kiara. More."

"It's so big. Your cock is so big. Yes. Fill me, Manuel?—"

"Stop." The audio disappears. I open my eyes to find Milo leering at me, his chest rising, jaw clenched. "That's enough."

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