Page 142 of Sinful Desires
I moved.
One step forward. Maybe two.
She looked back, just once, over her shoulder. Cheeks pink, hand raised, telling me to stay without saying a word.
“Sorry, everyone,” she laughed, fake and too bright. “Thought there was a bee on my watermelon.”
She sat back down, brushing invisible dust from her lap.
The silence lingered a beat too long before the chatter picked up again like nothing had happened.
“You were saying,” she said, clearing her throat as she grabbed grapes and shoved a few in her mouth.
Nicholas eyed her.
“That Liya should ride your bodyguard until he stops clenching his fucking teeth. I mean, Christ, working for you? Man’s probably got blue ballsandwar flashbacks.”
My hands locked back around my phone, knuckles pale as the hallway cam refreshed. The intruder was heading out now, back the way he came.
He pulled the door shut behind him, hit the elevator, and waited.
But I had the footage.
I had his gait. His build. The exact second he slipped up and tilted his chin too far.
Liya cackled, barely keeping it in.
Then she whispered—low, close, meant for Scarlett only. “Honestly, I’d love to. I haven’t seen a man that gorgeous in real life in a long time.” Her voice dipped further. “Would you mind, Scarlett?”
My phone buzzed again. Lazzio replied.
Three minutes out.
I switched feeds and pulled up the elevator camera.
All of them were empty.
Every cab was still, doors closed, floors lit. The intruder was gone. No exit. No stairwell feed. No sign of a door opening. He had vanished into thin fucking air.
Scarlett’s lips parted to answer, but she didn’t get the chance.
The director stormed into the tent, grinning too widely, arms already reaching for her. Told her it was an honor to have her on set, asked if she wanted to be part of the crew, and even offered her a background cameo like he was handing her candy.
She laughed. Polite. Professional.
The conversation drifted. He started talking about her music, the upcoming Oscar buzz, how excited everyone was to see her on stage.
I wasn’t listening anymore. My eyes stayed locked on her.
She’d never answered Liya, and that made my teeth grind.
Because the idea that she didn’t give a fuck—that she didn’t get jealous or possessive or even fucking bothered at the thought of someone else wanting their mouth around my cock like it was some casual, harmless fantasy—made my blood boil so hard I could feel it scraping the inside of my skull.
I couldn’t stand that kind of silence.
That kind of indifference.
It made me want to grab her by the throat and remind her exactly who I fucking belonged to.
