Page 57 of Coldhearted King

He’s right, of course, but I don’t give a fuck if he suspects something. There’s nothing he can do about it except regret his actions. I just give him a cool smile that makes his fist clench on the table before he looks down at his legal pad and picks up his pen as if he’s taking notes.

After I get a rundown from everyone on their plans for the week ahead, I open the floor to questions. Once that’s wrapped up, I end the meeting and stand, making my way to the door as the team gathers their notes and follows me out.

Using the excuse of pausing to fire off a quick email to Roman on my phone, I wait for Delilah to exit the room. When she emerges with Paul walking next to her, his head bent to talk directly in her ear, my muscles tense. I’m not sure what he’s saying to her, but from the stiff expression on her face, she doesn’t seem happy about it. I resist the urge to intervene. After all, despite my new and disconcerting feelings of possessiveness, Delilah is more than capable of looking after herself.

She stops and faces him, putting a hand up and pushing against his chest, forcing him to give her some space. I can’t see what she’s saying, but her chin is up, her delicate jaw firm as she talks. Paul scowls and rubs his hand over his mouth, but he nods and takes a step back. Delilah continues toward the elevator.

“Miss West. Can I see you in my office?” I say.

She looks startled, as if she hadn’t even noticed me standing there, but she nods and changes course.

My eyes meet Paul’s, and I can tell by the anger simmering there that he knows—or at least strongly suspects—that I’m fucking her. It shouldn’t give me so much pleasure, but it does. And I let it show on my face.

I’m still smirking as I turn my back on him and follow Delilah to my office. I can almost feel the daggers he’s shooting into my back, but I couldn’t give a fuck if he’s pissed or not. He screwed up with Delilah. Twice. He doesn’t deserve her.

I catch up with her as she stops outside my door.

“What do you want to—”

“Inside,” I say, pushing the door open and ushering her in with a hand on her back. I don’t bother to check whether Paul is still watching.

As soon as I close the door, I turn and press her against it, swallowing her gasp as my hands roam over her curves.

“Cole, what are you doing?” she breathes as my lips skim over the smooth skin of her neck.

I wrap her hair around my fist and tilt her head so she’s looking up at me. “What was Paul saying to you?”

She blinks. “He asked what happened while we were in Chicago.”

“What did you tell him?”

She presses her full lips together. “I told him that considering he didn’t think I had a right to know he was sleeping with Philippa when we were together, he doesn’t have a right to know who I’m sleeping with when we’re not.”

That’s my girl.

I tug her head back and brush my lips over the pulse point fluttering at the base of her throat. “What time are you finishing today?”

“I’ll probably work until six.”

“Come home with me tonight.” I wince, even as I hear myself say the words. I don’t take women back to my penthouse. It’s my private sanctuary. But now that I’ve said it, I can’t take it back. If I take her to the hotel where we shared our first night, she’ll have questions.

Turns out I don’t have to worry about that, though.

“I can’t tonight. I’m having dinner with Alex. I’m going there straight from work.”

She’s blowing me off to have dinner with another man? “Who’s Alex?” Even to me, my voice sounds rougher than usual.

“My roommate. We have a standing dinner date every Monday. She’s missing her fiancé, so I don’t want to skip it.”

I didn’t know my muscles had tightened, but they relax now. Although I’m not particularly happy that I won’t have her tonight, it’s the visceral response I had to the thought of her having dinner with another man that’s concerning. Even though I agreed with her stipulation to keep this arrangement exclusive, I wasn’t expecting to be bothered by who she spent her time with.

“Okay,” I say curtly, letting her go and making my way to my desk.

She’s still standing by the door when I sit down. She’s tucked in her blouse and looks put together again. As gorgeous as she is, I prefer seeing her with signs of my touch all over her.

“I’m free tomorrow night,” she says, her head tilted as she studies me.

“I have plans.” It’s true. It’s also something I could reorganize, but my irrationally possessive reactions coupled with Roman’s earlier words of warning have me suddenly needing to rein in my desire for her—to prove to myself that I have this thing under control.

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