Page 47 of Dirty Damage

DREW:My buddy in Vegas just sent me this. What are we gonna do about it?

Finally, my X-rated Oleg fantasies evaporate as I remember why I’m actually here.

I text back for the first time in months.

I’m already doing something about it.

14

OLEG

At first, I think I’m in the wrong apartment.

That’s the only explanation I can come up with for why bubblegum, pop princess nightmare music would be blasting through my in-home speaker setup.

I had the speakers installed when I moved in five years ago, but I’ve never actually used them.

There’s also a sweet, spicy tang in the air coming from the kitchen. The smell is going to linger just as long as this tension headache.

When I asked Uri to tell Sutton to make herself at home, this isn’t what I had in mind.

I knew she’d snoop. I wasn’t even that surprised when I saw her exploring the apartment on the cameras. Artem and I are the only two people with access, purely for security purposes.

Then I saw her pushing her way into my bedroom… into my closet.

I watched her open the private cabinet in the back, and in an instant, I was hard as steel and Artem was banned from accessing the footage ever again.

She was still fully dressed, but I’d wanted to wring Artem’s neck just on the off chance he’d seen her holding that satin rope.

Then I wanted to rush home in the middle of the day—another first for me.

But I forced myself to finish the work day.

To control myself.

Now, I’m following the poppy siren song to the kitchen, wondering if I shouldn’t deviate to the bathroom first.

Even my legendary self-control has limits. A quick release could help me keep my shit together.

But all those dangerous thoughts of Sutton in my space that I’d shoved down are now in the driver’s seat. I’ve lived alone for years.

I want to see what it looks like to come home to someone.

I round the corner and discover that coming home to someone looks like Sutton Palmer shaking her ass in the middle of my kitchen.

She’s standing with her back to me, chopping something at the counter, swaying to the music. Even with the loose jeans and sweatshirt she’s wearing, I know exactly what the curves of her body look like, thanks to her viral boudoir photoshoot.

Add that to the list of things I wish I could keep just for myself.

I’m contracting her out for a very specific purpose, but that doesn’t mean I want anyone but me seeing the rest of her.

Fake or not, she’ll be my wife.

That makes her for my eyes only.

She rolls her body to the beat, and my cock wouldn’t mind staking its own claim.

I have a sudden vision of ripping those terrible clothes off her, spreading her on the kitchen island and having my way with her.

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