Mm. Yet she was in the Bloodhound every Friday night, breast-smushing her colleagues like some cheerful little party slut. Sure.
I’d make sure she left her inhibitions at the door.
My scheme was flawless.
Four days.
Four nights.
My suite.
My rules.
She didn’t know what she was walking into.
Not yet.
But she would.
By the end of the weekend, she won’t just want it—she’d beg for it.
For the weight of my body.
The bite of my command.
The sting of my hand if she’s bratty enough.
I’d pin those trembling hands above her head and make her look me in the eye when she came all over my dick.
Make her admit she was made for it.
For me.
I’d waited while she left.
And still, every damn day, I woke up harder than stone, thinking about how she’d taste.
How she’d sound.
How she’d look, pinned beneath me, full of me—stuffed so deep she wouldn’t be able to walk straight for days.
And by the time we returned to London?
She’d be mine.
The way she was always meant to be.
Dripping, panting and wrecked, but begging for more.
The stewardess placed my drink on the table, but I never looked away from Lucia. Not when my sexy little slut sat in front of me. It was open season and I was more than ready to hunt.
I forced myself to lean back and lift my glass.
One drink. Then I’d start the game.
?? ?? ??
“How are you finding working with the board of directors?” I asked, pushing my glass aside.
