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I blink, my heart racing and the blood draining from my face as the shock begins to settle into me.
“Dahlia.”
I gasp for breath as the world spins and smoke chokes the air. Someone’s screaming somewhere. A fire alarm begins to wail.
“DAHLIA.”
I jerk from my stupor, horrified as I stare up into the viciously cold and brutally beautiful face of the man who I’m pretty sure just killed the only person to ever see me for me.
“Run from this place, now,” he snarls. “And if you ever speak of any of this, I’ll destroy everything you love.”
His hand drops from my throat. We stare at each other, as if he’s trying to gauge if I’m going to do as he says or die at his hands when I don’t.
My mouth opens, then clamps shut. Something unspoken flickers between us as my eyes narrow at him in both pure fear and utter hatred.
Hatred that I see mirrored right back in his own eyes lancing into me, swirling with something else I can’t quite place.
But I don’t wait to figure out what it is. I whirl, and I fuckingrun, out into the night, tears streaming down my face, my heart shattering as screaming sirens fill the air.
17
DEIMOS
I’ve never really consideredmyself a sadist. I mean, obviously, I have, at times, sadistictendencies. I blame the abnormally high levels of malice flowing through my veins for that. But for all of my more…primal inclinations, sexually speaking, I don’t actively seek out causing pain for my own satisfaction.
That all said, I could get very used to watching Dahlia mutter and swear to herself while she kneels on the floor of the Laconia offices in Louboutins and Dior skirt-suits putting furniture together.
It’s like the sexiest IKEA ad ever.
I smile darkly, my eyes narrowed and glinting as I watch her grit her teeth and shove her hair back from her face, giving me a glimpse of the wrath in her eyes. But she stays where she is, kneeling amongst the piles of half-broken-down cardboard boxes as she assembles a chair.
But even as I watch her, I’m not sure I could truthfully say that the pleasure I derive from watching this comes from her discomfort.
No, what’s got my cock rock-hard and swollen in my slacks is the fact that every time Dahlia bends too far over, her skirt rides up high enough to give me a flash of her black panties. Or that the harder she works, and the sweatier she gets while doing so, the more her blouse clings to her breasts, giving me glimpses of her nipples puckering.
It’s a distraction, to say the least. But then, if I’m going to be distracted from the very real work I have to do—with getting Laconia Logistics up and running, not to mention still being in charge of all of my family’s assets in Europe—I choose to be distracted in more, well, shall we say, less of a cock-tease way.
She startles when I exit my glass office and march over to her.
“Yes?” She mutters, shooting me a look.
“First, lose the fucking attitude. Second, we need to talk about your office attire.”
Her brows furrow. “What the hell is wrong with my office—”
“It’s distracting.”
She stares at me incredulously before her eyes narrow. “You’re something else, you know that?”
When I say nothing, her lips purse.
“Well?” Dahlia mutters. “Exactly how can my extremely appropriate, non-revealing office attire be less distracting for you, my liege?”
That fucking mouth. Part of me wants to unzip and fill it right here and now, until the sass in that mouth is replaced with my sticky cum.
“For starters, you can stop flashing me your fucking panties.”
Dahlia’s face explodes with heat. “Well perhaps I could stop spending my days on my hands and knees putting furniture—”
