Page 68 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Now,” he says, his voice thick with controlled hunger, “we go to the bedroom.”

He lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me. The hard length of his cock presses against me through his pants. In the bedroom, he drops me onto the bed, and I watch, breathless, as he strips. His body is a map of violence—scars crisscrossing his chest, muscles honed by brutality. Tattoos everywhere. His cock springs free, thick and intimidating, and I swallow hard.

“Like what you see?” he asks, stroking himself, with his eyes locked on mine.

“Yes,” I admit, as I fight the urge to lick the drop of pre-cum that slides down the tip of his thick cock.

He climbs onto the bed, pinning me beneath him. His cock nudges my entrance, but he doesn’t enter, teasing me with shallow thrusts. “Tell me why you’re here,” he says, his voice a low growl. “In my bed, in my fucking life.”

It’s a trap, but I’m too far gone to care. I touch his face, feigning vulnerability. “To understand you,” I say. “For the story, at first. Now… I don’t know.”

He searches my eyes, and for a moment, I think he’ll call me out. Then he thrusts into me, one brutal stroke that fills me completely, and I cry out, the stretch exquisite. “Fuck,” he groans, his control fraying. “So fucking tight.”

He doesn’t give me time to adjust, pulling out and slamming back in, each thrust harder, deeper. The bed shakes, the headboard slamming against the wall. “You think you’re smart,” he growls, his hands gripping my hips, bruising. “Playing me like I’m some mark. But this—” He thrusts so deep I see stars. “This is what you get for crossing me.”

My nails rake his back, drawing blood, and he hisses, his pace turning feral. “Fuck, yes,” he says, his voice raw. “Mark me, Lea. Show me you feel it.”

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, my body chasing the pleasure despite my mind’s protests. “You’re mine,” he snarls, his hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my blood rush. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasp, the word torn from me as another orgasm builds.

“Damn right,” he growls, his thrusts relentless. “This pussy, this body… it’s mine.”

He shifts, hitting that spot inside me, and I shatter, my scream echoing as my walls clench around him. He follows, his rhythm faltering as he spills inside me, his groan primal, possessive. We collapse, sweat-slick and panting, his weight pinning me to the mattress.

He rolls off, pulling me against him, his arm a possessive band around my waist. “Sleep,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. “You’ll need it.”

He thinks he’s won. He thinks I’ve surrendered, fallen for his manipulations, become another asset in his collection.

Little does he know, I’ve just executed the opening move in my counter-strategy. Using the very desire he thought would be my weakness as my strongest weapon against him.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

Nico

I waketo the weight of Lea’s head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. The specific quality of the early morning light slanting through the blinds paints stripes across her naked back. She sleeps the way innocents do, deeply though I know better than most how deceptive appearances can be.

Last night replays in my mind: her planned surrender, the way she started our encounter after watching me handle Moretti’s threats.Too convenient. Too perfectly timed.

Marco’s voice is still in my head from our last private conversation on the balcony.“She’s playing you,”he’d warned, eyes narrowed with concern.“The timing is suspicious. First, she’s snooping through your laptop, then she can’t wait to fuck you? Come on, boss.”

I’d dismissed him with a wave, though not because I disagreed.Of course she’s playing me. I’ve encountered enough strategic seductions to recognize one.What Marco doesn’t understand is that manipulation can cut both ways, with each player believing they hold the strings.

Lea stirs against me, her leg shifting across mine. Even in sleep, she’s positioned herself strategically, one arm draped across my torso, pinning me while appearing affectionate. I smile at the subtle maneuver.She’s better at this game than I gave her credit for.

I run my fingers along her spine, counting the vertebrae like rosary beads. She arches into the touch without waking, a purely physical response and therefore genuine.These unguarded moments are precious, the only times I see past her performance to the woman beneath.

Her eyelids flutter, consciousness returning. I feel the exact moment awareness hits her, the slight tensing of muscles, the shift in breathing. She makes a deliberate show of stretching languorously, as if untroubled by waking in my arms after all we’ve done. As if this is where she wants to be.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice husky with sleep. The sound stirs something in me, something I quickly suppress.

“Sleep well?” I ask, keeping my tone casual despite the possessive heat that flares at the sight of the marks I’ve left on her neck, her collarbone, the soft curve of her breast.

She nods, sitting up to survey the room. The sheet falls to her waist, leaving her breasts exposed. The morning light loves her skin, turning it golden against the white cotton. My shirt from yesterday lies crumpled at the foot of the bed where I tossed it before taking her the second time last night.

“May I?” she asks, reaching for it.

I nod, watching as she slips it on. There’s something satisfying about seeing her in my clothing, a primitive marking of territory that appeals to the part of me that operates on instinct rather than calculation.

---