Page 74 of The Final Contract
My cheeks burn even though I’m alone in the penthouse. Finn’s stationed quietly outside the door for another hour until the night guard comes to relieve him, but it still feels like someone might see what I just sent.
A minute later, my phone pings.
Killian in a bathroom. Looks like the bakery. A mirror selfie—and my mouth goes dry.
His shirt is caught between his teeth, baring a torso that looks carved from marble. Abs, chest—all of it on blatant display.One hand holds the bakery bag, the other his phone. He’s angled, flexing. Sexy.
SERAPHINA: Very nice, Mr. Shaw
I type, biting my lip so hard it hurts.
Another pic arrives. This one makes me chuckle—he’s clearly propped his phone up, stripped his shirt off completely, and caught himself flexing from behind. Broad shoulders, back roped in muscle, arms pulled tight.
Another buzz. This time he’s facing the mirror, arm pressed low against his side, biceps swelling, abs tight, torso curved just so.
Fuck. He’s a beautiful specimen of a man. And he’s showing off…just for me.
A new text follows:
KILLIAN: Someone walked in and caught me. I may be banned for life.
I laugh out loud, clutching the phone to my chest.
SERAPHINA: Three pictures? I tease. One was acceptable.
He fires back instantly, cocky as ever:
KILLIAN: Just making sure there’s no competition.
I roll my eyes, still smiling like a fool.
Then another ping.
KILLIAN: Show me something, Miss Wylde.
My cheeks heat. I’ve done enough boudoir shoots to know how to hit the angles, but this feels different. This feels personal. For him.
I’m already stretched out on the rug in front of the fire, the faux fur soft against my skin. So I shift, arching my back just right, making sure my ass pops, toes pointed. A pose that could imply the POV of him standing over me, looking down the line of my body. Imagining me on my knees, pleasing him.
I snap the picture before I can talk myself out of it and hit send.
A beat later, my phone buzzes with his reply. Just one word.
KILLIAN: Fuck.
Then:
KILLIAN: Running by my apartment to grab something. Be back soon.
Instantly, my pulse quickens. Waiting has never felt this unbearable.
To keep myself occupied, I make one of my favorite cocktails—a pussy-friendly one. Grey Goose vodka, cranberry juice, and pineapple juice, shaken and poured into a martini glass. Tart, sweet, and smooth. The cranberry helps fight against UTIs; the pineapple helps my sweet pussy’s pH levels.
Things a good companion makes sure to take care of.
I curl up by the fire—not for the heat but for the cozy aesthetic.
Earlier, Eve and I talked about making a timeline, piecing together the events that triggered the stalking. She thought it might help. So I grab a pad of paper and a pen and start taking a trip down memory lane, noting every strange thing, every date,every text. It’s exhausting, and I’ve probably been at it an hour when the door finally opens.
