Page 75 of The Final Contract
I know those boots. That walk. Killian.
I’ve shifted to my favorite chair, legs tucked under me, when he rounds the corner—two brown bags in hand. One from the bakery, one plain. He must’ve stopped home to change, because somehow he looks even more unfairly attractive than he did this morning, in all black.
“Your payment, ma’am.” He sets the bakery bag in my lap, deadpan but with a glint in his eyes.
I grin like an idiot, and he likes it. I can tell.
The plain bag he drops in the chair across the room. Then he checks his gun before storing it in the drawer of my coffee table. His knife comes off his belt next, set within reach on the table. Every movement only adds to the dark, dangerous sexiness that clings to him like a second skin.
He drops onto my wide couch, one foot on the floor, head resting against the arm so he’s facing me.
I’ve already fished out a pistachio macaron, taken a bite. Peeking inside the bag, I find more—different colors, different flavors. “Thank you, Mr. Shaw,” I tease, standing and walking toward him with the second half of the macaron between my fingers.
For once, I don’t guard myself. I just climb onto the couch, hike one leg over, and straddle him.
His hands find my hips immediately, squeezing, running up my sides and back down again.
“You like macarons?” I ask, voice huskier than I intend.
I lean down, kissing him—just a brush of tongue.
He answers against my mouth. “Don’t. But tasting them off you? Might come to love them.”
I smile and kiss him again.
“Hungry?” he murmurs.
“Starving. If I don’t have some hot pasta soon, I may die.”
He chuckles, handing me his phone, already open to the Caviar Black app. “We can’t have that.”
Still straddling him, I make my selections while his hands stay on me. He rubs, massages, traces idle circles as I scroll, never once taking his eyes off me. By the time I finish and set the phone aside, I’m flushed and fidgeting in his lap.
He cups my ass and pulls me closer, kissing me deep and slow, his tongue warm against mine.
“I’ll have you know,” he growls softly, “I walked around half of Manhattan with a raging hard-on because of you.”
I throw my head back, laughing. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Please do.”
He sits up, pressing kisses along my chest, breathing in my perfume like it’s oxygen. Then he stalls, a flicker of something uncharacteristically bashful crossing his face. “I got something.” He hesitates. “For you.”
My smile softens. His hand grips my hip like a warning to hold steady as he leans forward, dragging the plain brown bag into his lap.
“It’s not much,” he mutters. “Just something. You don’t have to keep it.”
I cup his face, thumb brushing against the scruff of his jaw. “Thank you,” I whisper, lips grazing his.
I pull the item out, blinking at first, not sure what it is.
“It’s for your light,” he says.
And then I get it. My breath catches. A sun-catcher—but not the tiny kind for a window. This is for the whole room—and I can imagine it saturating the space in beautiful, fractured colors and prisms of light.
My expression must give me away, because his lights up to match mine.
“Will you put it up?” I ask, barely more than a breath.
