Page 43 of The Final Contract
In the limo, Killian explained Finn’s point to draw the stalker out. To force him to move. Maybe if you go somewhere he can’t follow, he’ll get sloppy. Desperation makes mistakes.
It serves my purposes of finding this final contract without Killian’s constant pushing.
But he never once looked at me while he said it. His eyes stayed on the window, the city lights flashing against his sharp cheekbones, his jaw tight.
I pretended not to think about his cock. The piercing at its tip. The guttural sound he made when he came last night,watching me writhe in his bed. The way my orgasm ripped through me, knowing he was part of it. Knowing it was forbidden.
Finn rode in the back of the limo on our way to the date. He’s been with us all day. Which meant neither of us dared mention last night. But I caught the glances Killian thought I wouldn’t—the flash of his eyes, the grind of his jaw every time Eve mentioned the word dates.
The limo slows, pulling to the curb. Killian gets out first—tall and broad, dark against the street lamps. I expect his hand next, that steady pull that always grounds me.
But it isn’t his hand that reaches for me.
It’s Barrett Hall’s.
“Stunning,” he says, voice warm but uncertain, as though he doesn’t know how to breathe in my presence. His eyes sweep over me with something that looks more like awe than arrogance. Not the cocky playboy Killian muttered about on the way here.
“What a pleasure it is to meet you, Mr. Hall.”
I smile and take his offered hand, sliding easily into the crook of his arm. His bicep flexes beneath my palm—solid—and for a fleeting second it could be Killian’s arm under my touch.
His rumble is deep. “Please. Barrett.” He raises an eyebrow, taking my hand and placing a kiss on my knuckles.
Barrett smells like spice and clean soap. He nods at the security waiting by the door, and they wave us in without hesitation.
Behind us, Finn—and a very stern-looking Killian—follow.
Inside, the bass hums low. Velvet shadows, gold light dripping from chandeliers. Barrett leans in, tells me again how beautiful I look, his hand warm at the small of my back.
Behind him, a sound cuts through—the long exhale of a man losing patience.
I glance past Barrett’s shoulder to Killian with a tight smile. “I’ll know where to find you if I need you.”
Then I let the pro-football golden boy lead me deeper into the club, into a private booth in the VIP section. I sit, cross my legs slowly, the slit in my dress spilling open just enough to tempt.
But all I feel is the weight of his stare across the room.
Leaning against the bar like a storm bottled in flesh. His thundercloud eyes locked on me, jaw hard, body coiled.
My Irish giant.
Watching.
Waiting.
Barrett is… nice.
Not what I expected at all. He’s talkative, but not the kind of man who fills the silence with his own accomplishments. He tells me about his nieces—adorable little girls near the same age as my niece and nephew. His face softens when he talks about them, about teaching them to throw a football in the backyard.
He has a big family. Eldest of seven. Mom and Dad still married, still together, still in love. He laughs when he says they drive him crazy sometimes, but there’s pride in it. Warmth.
And when I ask what he’s looking for, he doesn’t dodge. Doesn’t throw out some playboy line about having fun while he’s young. He says it straight: “The perfect someone to make a life with.”
He makes subtle moves as we talk. A brush of his hand against mine when he reaches for his drink. A lean a little closer when the bass drowns out our voices. Eventually, he turns fully toward me, his palm finding my thigh. He bends close, his lips brushing my ear as he speaks over the music.
And I let myself lean into him.
The hand on my thigh slides a little higher. His voice is low, deep, threaded with genuine attention. But that’s not what has every nerve in my body sparking.
