Page 54 of Tide of Treason
I dragged a thumb along her jaw, trying not to say what burned behind my teeth:You’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.Instead, I let it bleed out rough. “And you’re taking me so damn well,principessa.”
Long, dark hair fell into her face, tangling aroundflushed cheeks until she gave her head a flick and sent it tumbling over one shoulder. The raw sensuality of the move, the pure fucking womanliness of it, sent a dark wave of irritation clawing through my chest.
I wasn’t in the mood for anything except fucking this woman out of my system.
But the problem was, we didn’t stop.
Somewhere around the second round, my brain started slipping, the edges of consciousness going fuzzy and indistinct. The moon had climbed high, streaming through blackout glass in a dirty silver stripe across the couch. I bit her shoulder, rutting so deep my abs cramped and my thighs started to shake. Her legs gave out so I pulled her up, chest to back, my arm banded tight under her tits.
By the third round, I was delirious. High. My chest ached, that old pressure behind my ribs going volcanic. All I could see was Kayla—every angle, every slick inch, every part of her that used to be off-limits and was now just fuckingmine. I let the control slip. Talked dirty in her ear. Told her how she looked with my dick in her, how good she sounded when she broke apart. Told her I could fuck her like this until her voice went hoarse and the neighbors called the cops. She said, “Let them.”
I fucked the two words into her mouth the next time she moaned.
Outside, the sky shifted from black to bruised purple to the weak, guilty light of morning.
I was man enough to admit I was in serious trouble here.
I forgot topull out.
15 | Kayla
29 years old
Present day
The problem withfucking your sister’s husband—aside from, you know, the obvious moral dilemmas—was that at some point, you had to face the fact that you weren’t just a bad person. You were the worst kind of person. The kind who didn’t feel guilty. The kind who lit the match, dropped it in a puddle of gasoline, and stood there, basking in the warmth of the flames.
I was going to kill him.
Right after I fucked him again.
Padding into the kitchen, I searched for coffee and something to kill the dull ache blooming between my temples that throbbed in time with the growing list of things that needed to be done before tomorrow’s official casino opening.I found neither. What I did find was a half-packed penthouse, pricey marble counters, and a note from Marilyn Dubois sitting on the kitchen island next to a covered dish.
Sweetheart, it read in looping, wine-soaked script.Figured you would need something to replenish after all that cardio. Enjoy the ziti.
I stared at the note. At the dish. Back at the note. My skin prickled.
Marilyn had lived in this building for almost twenty-five years. I knew this because I owned the fucking place. Had gone through every lease agreement, every financial report, every bullshit HOA meeting where some billionaire’s Botoxed wife complained about the pool needing new tiling. And yet, not once in the two years since I’d purchased this property had I ever bothered to ask how the hell she afforded a penthouse that cost more per month than most people made in a year.
I sank onto a stool and pulled the dish toward me, the scent of tomato sauce and layered cheese filling my nose. There was something inherently unsettling about the idea that Marilyn had known what Lucius and I were doing last night. Then again, I suppose you didn’t survive twenty-five years in the highest tax bracket without learning how to sniff out blood in the water.
The first time I saw Lucius Andrade’s name on a lease agreement, I laughed so hard I had to set my wine down.
The second time, I settled into my leather chair, traced the embossed letterhead with a fingertip, and let a quiet, decadent satisfaction fizz down my spine.
It wasn’t fate that led him here. It was business. A real estate agent with a penchant for discretion, a few greased palms, and a trail of bureaucratic red tape so neatly burned it no longer existed. Lucius had made what he thought was a practical choice, a convenient decision to streamline his twisted little life. And it had been practical—perfectly so—only he had no idea every brick, every beam, every shadow in this building belonged to me. The doormen smiled because I paid their salaries; the security cameras were my eyes.
Had he known, he would’ve burned the lease himself, walking away before the ink could even dry. The knowledge twisted sharply, burrowing a blade of raw, possessive pain right beneath my ribs. So I’d stayed silent, my lips sealed with pride and bitter satisfaction, watching him unknowingly circle closer, step after oblivious step.
Now Marilyn Dubois was feeding him baked ziti like he was a half-drowned stray she’d pulled out of a gutter and decided to civilise.
Bitterness ghosted along my tongue.
This was why I avoided lingering in my own properties. Lucius’s presence here wasn’t supposed to change a thing. Still, as I sat here, nursing tender muscles I refused to name and letting the hush of his apartment soak into my bones, a coil of unnamed tension pulled taut at the notion of him leaving. It wasn’t that I wanted him near, exactly. More because I couldn’t handle the idea of him disappearing somewhere beyond my reach.
Fucking inconvenient.
I wasn’t sentimental. I was territorial. There’s a difference, even if it only mattered to me.
