Page 55 of Lethal King

Tossing my phone onto the mattress, I storm over to the closet and try to busy my mind with another task.

What will I wear to this meeting?

Not another fucking black turtleneck, that’s for sure. I don’t need to blend into the darkness. Instead, I need something that will draw the eye of our potential partner.

Leander Onasis.

A few weeks ago, Tytus sent me a write-up on the guy. I quickly followed it up with some research of my own.

As far as I can tell, he’s a typical trust fund kid playing with family money. Other than that, one thing quickly became abundantly clear. The thirty-two-year-old billionaire is a veracious playboy. He owns more clubs than most people have fingers and toes.

But I guess that wasn’t enough.

The brat must have gotten bored with his luxurious lifestyle. Now, he wants to dip his feet into more dangerous waters.

Apparently, his family used to have mob ties.

He wants to rekindle them.

We’ve promised to help.

On one condition.

My phone buzzes loudly from back on my mattress as I shuffle through my closet.

Which one of these outfits will help me wrap a Greek billionaire around my little finger? Something flirty? Something dangerous?

When my eyes fall on a copper mini silk slip dress, I realize that my best bet is probably to go with something that has a little bit of both.

The skimpy dress is easy enough to get into, and when I check my reflection in the closet’s body mirror, a single unwelcome question flashes across my mind.

Is this dress skimpy enough to make a lion jealous?

The answer is a resounding yes.

Even if Rian never knows what I wore and who I met, I find myself desperate to do something I’m sure he would disapprove of.

The Irish king seems like the possessive type, after all.

In my mind, this will be another small victory. A way to erase the vulnerability he pounded into me earlier. A way to claim back some agency, even if I already feel like I’m in complete control.

Fuck. This asshole has me chasing my own tail.

No. Don’t give him the credit. It’s the hormones.

With a shake of my head, I try to rid myself of the man. I’ll get back to our lust-infused game of cat and mouse shortly. But I need a break from those maddening blue eyes. A reprieve from that massive cock and those strong rough hands.

But there’s no fooling myself, and even as I strut back to my phone and take note of the coordinates Tytus’ has just sent, I know there’s no forgetting Rian Kilpatrick.

His fucking scent still clings to me.

The best I can do is use my body as it was meant to be used.

To get what I want.

Power.

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