Page 139 of Their Arrangement
I told myself it didn’t matter. That I wasn’t the one who touched her. That I didn’t want to be. But it was a lie. I’d been lying since the day she walked in.
And now?
Now I was angry.
Not at her.
At me.
For not getting there first.
I crossed the room and opened the sideboard. The crystal decanter was cold in my hand. I poured too hard. Whiskey sloshed over the rim. Didn’t care.
I didn’t even flinch when it hit my fingers. I just held the glass like it was the only thing I could still control. My fingers were tight enough to crack the crystal. My cock was still hard. My throat raw. My chest burned like something feral was trying to claw its way out. Not because she let him touch her. Because it was him. Barron.
Barron always takes first.
He walks in, makes a decision, and the rest of us bleed for it. He was warned about Selene. We all told him.
I told him. Said she’d break him. Hollow him out. Strip this company bare one secret at a time. He didn’t listen. He never fucking does. Because Barron always gets what he wants.And we always pay for it.
We pay for the women he can’t walk away from. We pay for the silence he keeps like a weapon until it’s too late to fix.
And now?
Now he’s walking through fire again. Only this time? The girl he wants alreadybelongsto me.
She said thank you—for me.
ShecamewhenIcalled.
ShebentwhenItold her to.
But she bent forhimtoo.
And that? That… that was the part I couldn’t stop replaying. What did he say? What name did she whisper?
Did he press his fingers against the back of her neck? Did she flinch? Did she beg?Did she like it?
I threw back the whiskey. Didn’t taste it. Didn’t care. It burned like water. The door opened behind me.
Footsteps. Hers.
I didn’t turn. Couldn’t.
Because if I did, I’d grab her. Drag her into my office. Press her against the glass and make her say my name loud enough that Barron would fucking hear it. I set the glass down too hard. The echo rang through the room like a warning.
I turned my back on the floor. Sat down too fast. The chair creaked. Loud. Sharp. I stared at the screen. Nothing moved. No files. No reports. No distraction. Because she was still out there. Sitting. Typing.
Pretending.
I could picture her—corset cinched too tight, thighs pressed together, lace soaked through. Typing the same sentence over and over again. Deleting it. Starting again. Because that’s what she did when she was nervous. When she was wet.
My hands curled into fists on my lap.
I didn’t look at the glass. Didn’t have to. I could still see her. Blouse open. Breasts rising too fast. Skirt tight across her ass. Bent over Barron’s desk.
My brother’s desk.
