Page 101 of Lethal Legacy

I can tell by the way he moves, the shape of his body. Even from this many floors up, I know it’s him. My body leaps in immediate response, an insistent pulse thudding between my legs.

Where has he been? With whom?

I know I have no right to answers to those questions. Nor even to feel this sense of anticipation. Our earlier conversation in no way changes the contract I signed, nor the boundaries around our relationship that Roman has made so clear.

I know I can’t ask him for what I want. This arrangement is about his needs, not mine.

That doesn’t stop me wanting him with a fierce, almost desperate hunger.

All I can hear is his low, rough voice: “On your knees, Miss Lopez.”

Desire licks through my body, hot and demanding.

Right now I don’t want to try to make sense of what Roman and I are. I don’t want to think of plans or next steps.

I don’t want to think at all.

I have a sudden, vivid memory of kneeling before him, his massive cock driving into my mouth and his rough voice guiding my every move.

My pussy spasms.

I’m so ready I feel like I’ll explode the minute he touches me.

If he touches me.

30

ROMAN

Make her wait.

It’s past one in the morning when I finally pull the bike into the basement parking garage. I’ve deliberately returned late.

Despite the pelting rain, I chose a circuitous mountain route back to Malaga. I took the bends at breakneck speed, pushing the MTT and myself to the limit to exhaust myself in both body and mind. And yet no matter how far and hard I rode, the savage demon of fury and desire rode with me, whispering dangerous temptations through the rain.

I’m still restless when I step into the elevator. My fingers itch to press the button for her floor. The decision to house the au pair and children on a floor separate to mine makes sense. I’ve never wanted them impacted by my activities, nocturnal or otherwise. At this particular moment, however, that good sense is a barrier to what I actually need.

Which is to fuck Lucia into quivering submission.

Her unwillingness to trust me still infuriates me beyond reason. A hundred miles of hard riding has done nothing to suppress the niggling fear that despite my command, I will return to find her gone. It’s been an effort of will not to text her again or post extra security to monitor her movements. But doing so would mean admitting those fears to myself.

And besides—I’m done talking.

I’m resolved to uncover her secrets. Then to solve her problems, so comprehensively that there’s no need for talking at all.

A dark part of me wants her to be blind to my decisions. Needs her to learn how fucking wrong she was to ever doubt me. To ensure she learns the lesson that there’s nothing, and nobody, I can’t handle.

Consider it punishment for doubting my ability to manage business.

The desire to exert total control over her doesn’t change the fact that I’m almost vibrating with tension as the elevator approaches her floor. I grit my teeth and keep my bike gloves on as a deterrent against pushing that goddamn button.

The elevator glides to a halt anyway. I mentally curse my security guards. Cell phones exist for a reason. There’s nothing urgent enough to demand my attention by forcing me to stop.

On the other hand, I’m in the mood for a savaging.

Someone is about to lose their job.

I’m almost relishing the thought of ripping someone a new orifice.

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