Page 27 of Devil's Tulip

Now.Focus.

Unlike my office back in Manhattan with its wall of screens, this space is minimal. A single computer sits on my desk, untouched most of the time since I prefer to spend my hours reading in the library when I’m here, escaping the noise of the city.

I power up the computer and the screen flares to life almost instantly. As I go to check my emails, my phone begins to ring—Rafael again.Christ.

“What the fuck, Rafael? It's been barely six hours since our last conversation.”

“I just find it hard to believe you haven’t really found her yet.”

“I deeply appreciate your unwavering faith in my tracking skills.” Not really. “But she’s a smart one, okay? There’s a reason she’s remained hidden for two months.”

“Hmm.” Pure skepticism in that sound.

I rub my temple. “Just give me some fucking space, okay? Don’t call me like you’re my goddamn wife, checking if I’m cheating on her.”

Rafael chuckles. “You have a reputation for finding people who don’t want to be found. And finding them quickly. So pardon my disbelief.”

My fingers drum the desk as I search for a way to get him off my back without mentioning Emilia. But Rafael is a stubborn fucker and like a bloodhound with lies—he smells them from miles away, and once he catches the scent, he doesn’t let go. So no choice but to play this card.

But I enjoy it nonetheless. “If you were so confident in my skills, why have you been trying to stop me from finding Emily?” Although truthfully, he hasn’t been the one stopping me.

I’ve hunted for her relentlessly since the incident with Maximo and Elira a couple of months ago. But she’s proving impossible to find. Whoever she’s working for—whatever government organization is protecting her—they’re pulling out all the stops to keep her hidden.

The call cuts off abruptly, just like it did during our last call a few hours ago, and I chuckle. That’s what he gets for trying to rush me.

I’m not nearly ready to be away from Gianna yet, damn it, and I refuse to be rushed.

9

GIANNA

The door catches my weight with a dull thud, but I barely feel it over the violent pounding of my heart. My hands tremble as I press them to my chest, trying to contain the wild thing rattling beneath my ribs. Every muscle in my body turns to liquid, and as I slide down the length of the door, the sticky wetness between my thighs creates a sweet friction against my sensitized clit that makes me moan. I bite my lip.

What is this?

He didn’t even kiss me—didn’t do anything overtly sexual—and yet here I am falling apart like some bumbling virgin. My head falls forward, fingers sinking into my hair. What the hell is wrong with me?

I force myself up on watery legs. What I need is an ice-cold shower and a solid eight hours of sleep to reset my brain. That’s it. That’s all this is—exhaustion. Not to mention the lingering adrenaline dump from almost getting kidnapped. My circuits are fried, synapses misfiring left and right, making me react to him like he’s oxygen and I’m drowning.

Yes. That’s the explanation.

I nod to myself, stripping off my clothes and tossing them onto the bed as I make my way to the ensuite. But the second I step into the bathroom, my gaze locks onto the shower, and a crystal-clear image slams into my head?—

Michael.

Walking out of his bathroom.

Steam rolling off his ink-decorated skin.

His cock bobbing with each purposeful step towards me, that wicked silver barbell glistening at the tip, stretching across his thick, swollen head.

My thighs clench.

“No,” I moan, squeezing my eyes shut as more wetness leaks from my already-drenched core.

The way he turned slowly, gave me a perfect view of his tight butt before facing me again. All while his cock grew harder right in front of me.

The sheer want in his gaze as he hovered over me.

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