My cock is thick and aching. All I need to do is curl my fist around it, and I’ll be done in two strokes.
But I resist temptation.
I want thoughts of Seraphina gnawing at the edges of my control, want the constant reminder of her my need for her.
Once I’m slightly less feral, I towel off and suit up in slacks and a shirt I leave open at throat.
Vionna is waiting in the parking garage, and I settle into the back seat to check my email on the drive to my country club.
“Seeing Ms. Hollis tonight?” Vionna meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Think I’ll take her to dinner at Mario’s.”
“Excellent choice, sir.” Even she’s never seen me like this. Courting. If that’s what I’m doing.
All I know is that even spending a few hours apart from Seraphina feels wrong. Like I’ve misplaced something vital.
And that’s pushing me into dangerous territory.
My whole life, I’ve been warned to watch out for women, told they’ll destroy you and everything you’ve built, much like my mother did.
She got under my dad’s skin.
He’d ignored the warning signs until his entire life crashed around him.
Which is no doubt what Walt wants to remind me about. And that’s annoying as hell. I don’t want any discussion about my assistant.
Moments later, my phone vibrates.
Wondering if it’s the woman in question, I pull out the device.
Walt. Running an hour behind.
Classic Walt. He doesn’t just run late—he rewrites time like it’s a shareholder agreement.
Sonofabitch.
Vionna pulls off the freeway and takes the discreet turn no one ever notices. Thick live oaks crowd the narrow road, their limbs tangled overhead like the fingers of the old-money gods who built this place. The brick wall’s unmarked. The iron gate even more so. No signs. No welcome. Just a single guard who scans my credentials and gives a silent nod before pressing the button.
The gate swings open with all the urgency of a man who’s never been told no.
We glide down the long gravel drive, swallowed by green. The grounds stretch out like a secret—lush, sprawling, manicured to within an inch of their soul. Somewhere beyond the trees are the tennis courts, the croquet lawn, the helipad.
And just past that: the heart of the Braes. Stone facade. Hidden entrances. More ghosts than windows.
I take the rear access. Not because I’m hiding. But because I know the rules.
Discretion isn’t a suggestion here—it’s law.
Inside, the bar is hushed and heavy. Wood-paneled walls, soft lighting, and the kind of chairs that remember the generations of men and women who’ve sat in them. Deals here have been inked in scotch and shadows.
Cullen Cresthaven is parked on a stool like he’s been poured onto it.
I slide onto the seat beside him. The leather creaks under my weight, and he doesn’t look up.
“Cresthaven.”
“Blackwell.”
