Page 50 of Nowhere to Run

Chapter Nine—Adrian

We were both silent as I massaged her, my hands working over that beautiful body, kneading her flesh. My palms slid up her back, savoring the way her narrow waist tapered into soft curves, the sides of her breasts teasingly visible from this angle.

I moved lower, gripping her ass and spreading her cheeks just enough to admire the perfection between them—that pink pussy, her tight little asshole. Mmm… my dick stirred again, insatiable. But not tonight. I couldn’t push her anymore. Not yet.

I sighed, letting my hands slide down her legs, taking in the way she moaned softly at my touch. She was mine now. I’d proven that tonight.

But as much as I enjoyed chasing her, breaking through her walls, I wanted more. I wanted her to crave me—to need me—like I did her. And I knew she wasn’t there. Not yet. But she would be. I’d make sure of it.

My phone rang—the sharp tone cutting through the quiet.

Victor.

The only person I had to answer to. For now.

“Sorry, baby,” I said, peeling my hands off her, every muscle in my body protesting. It took more restraint than I thought I had. My fingers curled against the sheets before I pushed off the bed, jaw tight. “I have to take this.”

She turned over, watching me curiously as I grabbed my phone and stepped into the hall.

“Adrian,” came Victor’s velvet-smooth voice. Measured. Always in control. “I need to send you out of town this weekend. There’s a private art show at the Guggenheim. One of the attendees—Jonathan Jourdain, has money to burn. Has a large collection—most of the works rumored to be stolen. Could be a good score for us.

Victor’s voice dropped lower, sharper. “I have a shipment arriving soon. Mid-range pieces—the usual. Easy for my men to get their hands on. Study Jonathan. Learn him. What would tempt him? What would make him spend? You know how to do this.”

I nodded instinctively. This was my role. Victor set the board, and I made the final move. I read the client, knew what he wanted before he did. That part of the job was easy. Influence. Persuasion. But I also handled delivery—the part that required precision. There were moving pieces, multiple players involved.

That’s why I needed to start planning for the big job.

The Rothko. Ten million dollars. Victor had promised it to me. But when? How?

Gripping the banister, I made my way downstairs, keeping my voice smooth, careful. “Of course, Victor.” I let the silence breathe for a moment before pressing.

“And the Rothko job? Any update?”

I could hear the smirk in his voice. “Soon, Adrian. I’ll have details soon. That buyer—I’ll select personally. But I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

I nodded, clearing my throat. “Thank you, sir.” Then I ended the call, exhaling slowly.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, thinking carefully. The work had been good to me—more than good. These jobs were the reason I’d built a small fortune in a matter of months.

But it wasn’t enough.

I exhaled slowly, jaw tightening as I paced the kitchen.

I didn’t want to leave Scarlett alone for the weekend.

My absence could give Ryan a chance to creep back in. That fucking psychopath.

I needed to find out what his deal was. Scarlett had said he ‘had connections’—what the hell did that mean?

I wandered into her dining room, searching for anything useful. I needed a last name. Something. I flipped through a stack of letters—her parents in Spain. Nothing I didn’t already know. A huge pile of untouched bills.

I smirked.

Of course she wasn’t keeping up with them. I’d take care of it. Figure out her passwords. Make sure she had what she needed.

I’d protect her. Take care of her. Do anything.

Making my way back upstairs, I eased open the bedroom door, the hinges creaking softly. I’d half expected her to be asleep after everything I’d put her through, but Scarlett surprised me—still awake, naked, clutching a pillow to her chest. So damn cute.

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