Page 207 of King of Pain
“Perfect,” she says, stashing the gloss back in her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “I’ll review it on the plane. I’m off to Atlanta for a few days, but I’ll be back in time for Chance’s big night. I bet he’s getting excited.”
I smile as I lean back in my chair. “I think he is. He was out of town for a couple days himself. Just texted me an hour ago that he got back to the condo.”
Meg gives me a knowing grin. “Well then, what are you still doing here? Go home. Welcome home sex is almost as good as makeup sex.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Ha! I may have to test your theory. You know. For science.”
She raises her eyebrows as she heads for the door. “We’re an HR nightmare.”
“Go catch your booty flight,” I say, wagging my brows at her.
She snickers. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
The second the door clicks shut behind her, I lean back in my chair and blow out a breath. I think about how damn lucky I am to have her as a mentor—tough, smart, direct as hell. She’s taught me everything I know and never once made me feel like I had to claw my way through some hazing ritual to prove myself. I’ve heard the horror stories—agents who eat their young, gatekeep for sport. Meg’s not like that. We work well together. Really well.
Which is why her request earlier has me scratching my head.
Meg always plays her cards open when it comes to internal agency stuff. This thing with the summary? The request totextit? It’s a bit left field. She knows I’d never question her process—not openly, anyway—but I can’t shake the feeling something else is going on.
Still, that’s a worry for later. Right now? There’s a man at home with a body sculpted by angels and a mouth that makes me see the heavens.
I airdrop the file to my phone, attach it to a text, and send it off to Meg with a follow-up message:
Me:Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
I shut my laptop, tuck it into my bag, and head out the door with one thought in mind:
Get home to Chance.
As I step into the elevator, I shoot him a quick text:
Me:On my way. Get naked.
I smirk, watching the screen for a second, waiting for the telltale little gray bubbles.
Nothing.
Then the read receipt.
Still no bubbles. No snark.
No “yes sir” or eggplant emoji.
Not even a GIF.
Huh.
But I don’t think too much of it—his silence might just mean he's doing exactly what I told him to. Using the five-minute countdown to get naked and treat me to my favorite view: him, spread out and ready for me.
I smile to myself as the elevator dings and the doors slide open.
The walk to the condo is quick. I unlock the door and step inside.
Guinness comes padding over, tail wagging like mad, nails tapping against the hardwood. I crouch down and scratch behind his ears, murmuring a soft, “Hey, little man.”
But as I’m knelt there, I spot Chance.
Sitting on the couch. Still. Silent. Facing the TV.
