Page 49 of His Pretty Little Duet

"And how was that?"

She touches my cheek. "Like you couldn't bear not to."

I breathe out roughly before redirecting the subject completely, not able to feign this one with the women I share my legacy—my life— with. "She needs clothes."

"Well, I will have my store bring them to her room. She'll need just pick them from the rack.Unless...you take her to my boutique tomorrow and spend some time with her. I think she will prefer your presence in this. It will seem less military to her and more..."

"Intimate."

"Yes." She turns to leave, then says over her shoulder, "And you could use real intimacy in your life, Clay."

I put my hands in my pockets, my black jacket fanning out behind my arms, my eyes glued to the silver handle, willing myself not to take it, not to turn it.

Not to fuck her.

Not to touch her.

But to have her ask me again why I can't sleep.

Relenting, I push open the door. Meeting me instantly is the sound of Jasmine's breathing, even but loud. I stop. If I wasn't so damn obsessed with this girl, wasn't nursing half a bottle of whiskey in my mind, that sound would stop me. I will remove her from watching Fawn. Leave her alone in this room so I can... visit.

Jasmine's presence doesn't seem necessary anymore. The girl isn't a spy. She isn't. She's a stray. My stray. Could she think that little of herself that she would honestly give her child to a stranger, be him her blood or not?

Her father is a fucking stranger.

I walk up to Fawn's bed side, my body casting a shadow over her petite form as I lean down to get a better look at her.

On her back, with the sheets around her waist, her body is a thing of perfect proportion. And yet, it is when she opens thosedoe eyes, a perfect green and a distressed blue, meeting mine that chips away at my stone soul.

Her eyes dance beneath their lids—dreaming.

Leaning down, I blow softly on her nipples, and they begin to grow to tight peaks beneath her silk nightgown. It takes every ounce of strength I have to not wrap my mouth around those exquisite tiny beads and suck on them through the silk. Another... perfection.

This girl is too damn pretty.

I grip the top of the white sheet laid across her waist and drag it down her hips, past where her little gown lies across her upper legs.

My fingers skim across her knee, panning upwards, nothing more than the slightest of touches but enough to drag her gown up to her waist, revealing the prettiest bald pussy lips in the triangle gap between her thighs. I know what they look like when they open and swallow what they are given to swallow.

Fuck.

I pull the sheet back up.

Walk from her room.

Away from sweet temptation.

Clay

I strollinto the house just after ten p.m. Sunday night, having seen the Indonesian fuckers off at the airport for their redeye flight back to Jakarta. The press stopped me from making a timely exit, wanted a spontaneous interview about the fires while my illegal weapons partners checked in across the terminal.

All in one room.

Lorna is the queen of propaganda, and she has set me on a pillar for the residents to worship. A place I can operate without their eyes, too focused on the right or left of me to stare straight at the obvious. They all know. They knew when Jimmy ran this city, his influence in every department, and deep down in their guts, they know the same about me.

But while I protect them.

While I stand for them.

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