Page 30 of The Truths that Deceive

Last, I want her to fight me, to come at me with everything she is and draw blood right as I overpower her and take her hard.

My primal play kink is way stronger than any simple D/s play, stronger than sharing a woman, or anything else I can do at the clubs.

Marta was fun at this. A handful of others, too.

But right or wrong, I think Calista will blow them all out of the water.

I lick a path down her throat, then come back to her mouth and feather kisses over it, the kind of kisses that make her set free tiny moans, both of need and frustration.

She wants it rough more than she wants the sweetness of this little moment.

I lift my head as her hand comes down to cup me and her eyes widen the instant she touches.

I push her hand into me, holding it there against my hard cock.

“Is this all you’ve got?” she asks, voice a little thick and a lot bitchy.

“I can get someone else in to fuck your cunt at the same time if this doesn’t work for you.”

Somewhere in the back of my head, I know I’m playing with fire.

“No. I don’t evenwant you in there.”

“Really? You kissed me. You started this. Now you have to play it through.”

“I’m pretty sure there are some laws about that.”

“Do I look like a man who gives a fuck?”

She looks at me. And then very deliberately, she says, “Code.”

I release her and step back.

Riling her up and taunting her on all the levels I am isn’t really in the money-making brief of soft kidnap back to the States.

I offer her my arm. “You decided you’re my wife, Juniper. So let’s go back inside and see what the rest of the evening has to offer.”

Her eyes narrow but she loops her hand through my arm because she knows there’s nothing she can say to that.

Dancingslow with Calista was torture, she played reckless little games, plastering herself against me, rubbing against my cock.

Stupid, tiny games that will have huge repercussions for her. Very soon.

Her saving grace was the shift into young chic sophisticate, sliding easily into the role as my wife. How she arrived, even without the kiss or the dancing or innuendo that flowed, both spoken and silent between us, placed her slightly too old to be my daughter. Even my own daughter borders on the too old by virtue of when I got Sylvie pregnant. Way too young and?—

I stop, staring out the window as we’re driven back to my Charlottenburg apartment.

Calista doesn’t say a word, hasn’t since I dropped the veneer of genial rich man the minute we set foot inside the car.

Marta would have had the place searched after she left, an unspoken deal between us since I let her collect Calista.

Low-level BND search, under the ruse to see what I have, if I’m who I say I am. The details will go on, and they bore me. Nothing will have been found but clothes and the airline tickets.

By having it searched by someone I know means the other vultures—if they’re out there, circling—have had no chance to get in.

I unlock the door and Calista’s gaze sweeps the room, eyes landing on the tickets. “Someone’s been here.”

“They have.” I close the door, take off shoes and jacket, and pick up items to pack. Behind the sofa’s a suitcase. I open it on the floor and start to add some things when I go still.

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