Page 146 of Their Arrangement
When the French cufflink man finally leaned over and whispered, “What’s your name?”—
Wolfe stood.
The sound of his chair sliding back silenced the table.
“That’s enough.”
His voice didn’t rise. But it didn’t have to. Every person in the room stopped breathing. He didn’t look at the man. He looked at me.
“Come.”
Just one word. But it split me open.
I stood. Followed. Didn’t look back. He led me through a private hall. Long. Dim. Lined with portraits of men who stared down like they owned the city.
We passed one closed door. Another. Then he opened the last. Stepped inside. Waited.
When I crossed the threshold, the door shut behind me.
Locked.
The room was soundproofed.
Wolfe turned.
And the look in his eyes?—
It stripped me bare.
“You think I brought you here to be seen?”
His voice was low.
Rough.
Angry.
“I brought you here so they knew not to touch.”
He stepped forward.
“Instead, you let him breathe your air.”
I tried to speak.
“Wolfe—”
“No.”
He moved too fast. Pinned me against the wall with one hand. Not painful. Just… final. His other hand slid up my thigh. Lifted the slit. My breath caught.
“Next time you want someone’s attention,” he said, voice dark against my cheek, “you ask me first.”
His mouth found my ear.
“You’re mine. You got that? I let them look. But you never look back. Only me, Cloe. Only me, because to think about anything else is bringing me undone.”
Then he kissed me.
