Page 47 of Forget Me Twice

After a heavy exhale, he cants his hips up, pulling me down hard and grinding our pelvises together. His eyes have not once left my face, and so I force myself to relax and let him take over the rhythm. My hands find the back of his hair again.

Alright, Lassie…Let’s see what you’ve got.

The angle means his large cock is now doing a bang-up job of working my clit and G-spot in tandem. A simple Chair Cowgirl is way too mellow to ever earn a place on the mantle of my personalBest Sex Everannals, but I’m horny and Leo’s pace is strong and steady.

When I stop overthinking the mechanics of my choice of partner, his efforts are enough to gently coax a climax to the surface.

The heat of it begins to slink in, languidly curling around and around in my lower abdomen like a lazy house cat, and my head drops back. My upper body feels loose, even as my lower muscles begin to tighten.

The intrusive industrial bass thrums across my heated, sensitive skin. Beneath the cloying scent of smoke, I catch the lingering hints of Leo’s sweet, malty beer on his staccato breaths.

On the edge of my periphery, I sense the intrusive press of someone’s dark gaze between my shoulder blades—but then Leo’s measured push and pull of our hips begins to take on a new urgency, and I shove the thought back down beneath the rising wave of pleasure.

I feel the muscles in his thighs tense, and I watch with satisfaction as the veins on his neck begin to strain. “Fuck,” he pants out again, before slamming up hard, holding me still as he empties himself.

Leo’s release—and the possibility of someone watching us—has my own orgasm cresting hard and fast, almost in spite of its slow build up. I ride it all the way into shore with deliberate, greedy circles of my hips. Leo’s already lost to post-orgasmic bliss, eyes shut, chest heaving.

Before my body can fully relax however, I’m off his lap and pulling my dress down to cover my ass.

I glance up and catch Leo watching my movements with a cautious look on his face. His forehead glistens and I’ve made a totally delicious mess of his hair. He’s rightfully wondering if I’m about to bail. It’s not that I’m exactly opposed to hanging out with him right now, but I do still have other things I need to do tonight—like scouting The Gatehouse for a dealer.

And possibly uncovering the identity of our mysterious voyeur.

His cum is hot and tacky between my inner thighs, emphasizing the fact that I’m not wearing any panties. As much as I love the debauched feeling, I should probably start by going and tending to this mess.

I snatch up my drink, down the rest of it in one go, and point in the direction of the restrooms. Leo nods once.

I step out of the booth and skirt my way around the edge of the dance floor; the whole time vigilantly searching for possible leads on a seller. Knowing this is an Ace-owned club, chances are good thatsomeonearound here will have some decent shit on them.

Maybe—if I’m back in Fortune’s good graces yet—even some uncutAsphodel.It’s such a gamble getting a hold of pureAshthese days, now that the Suits are getting mixed up in the Ace’s local import and circulation.

But it would go a long fucking way in purging this constant, growing agitation that fucking Leo only just managed to smooth the edges of.

My mouth waters at the possibility.

Mmm. Come to Momma.

LeofuckingBaker.

I can’t even begin to describe how paper-thin the grip on my sanity is right now. Of all the bullshit moves she could have pulled, I never would have predicted this.

A cold, paralyzing rage is creeping in like a black fog on the edges of my vision, its hateful fingers threatening to strip back the semblance of composure that I am famously careful to maintain at all times.

After all, it wouldn’t look good ifMartin Sinclair’sperfect sonever lost control and gave in to his incessant urges to hold down and choke the life out of someone.

The anger at her sheer fucking audacity coils like a serpent and squeezes tightly at my throat. My chest. My guts. It’s crushing, and each breath that follows becomes more and more of a struggle.

I refuse to consider that the sick, choking feeling might be anything else.

I’m notjealous.

I don’t give a single fuck about any living person outside my three brothers.

It’s certainly not because I left the remaining pieces of my heart in the hands of a blonde-haired girl on an asphalt-covered playground six years ago.

Why would I even still care?

No, I’m aggravated because all our cautious scheming hasfinallystarted to produce real, tangible results; all the pieces that would get us set up and on our own slowly but surely falling into place.

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