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“For the children.”
“Noble.”
“I thought so,” she says, stepping in and taking the glass and doing exactly what I did, except reversing the roles.
It’s fucking hot. Inferno level.
“And Jac Miller?”
“I hardly know him.”
“You,” I say, “were talking to him.”
“The clue’s in the word hardly.”
I smile. Take the glass, finish the contents. “I really want to fuck you.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“It’s not getting you out of trouble if you’re ripping me the fuck off on behalf of Jac Miller. The man’s a piece of shit.”
“I know.”
“And he’s a—” I stop. “You know?”
She slides a hand down over my shirt and vest to my pants where she palms my cock. “I think he’s charming, way too sybaritic—”
“Nice fucking word.” My words scratch the air, and I slide a hand to the back of her neck. “He’s self-indulgent and eager to drown in pleasure and all the luxury he can splash loudly about. He takes no one or anything seriously.”
“Except for you, Hendrick.”
I take a second. “No. He wants me dead. Preferably by his hand. He just can’t do that because of the Quinate laws. So, he settles on hate.”
“He knows he gets to you, and he’s completely and utterly ruthless. He also knows he’s hot and women want him, and he’s also a dangerous, self-centered cold son of a bitch. You’ve a lot in common with him. You’re not sybaritic, but you indulge in your own way. And more importantly, you’re a cold, ruthless, murderous son of a bitch. Deadly and a master of bending rules over playing games. But whatever you might say, you play them.”
I run the glass over her tits as she starts to pull on my cock in the confines of my clothes. “Tell me more, Ms. Thief.”
“That’s low.”
“It’s what you are,” I say, a groan escaping as she unbuckles me, flips the button, and lowers the zipper. This time, as we hit something—the wall—the shock on her face is a mirror of what’s in my blood… Neither of us noticed we’d been moving across the room during this exchange.
“No,” she says as I toss the glass to the rug. That’s priceless, too, and I don’t give a shit about it. What I give a shit about, in this moment, is having her.
All of her.
She’s crack.
She’s opium.
She’s the finest of wines and the most lethal of moonshine.
Candlelight that dances and flickers and rocket fuel lit on fire.
I want to immerse myself in every part of her. Spend hours, days, years trying her. Indulging.
Just because I can.
Because it’s going to be so fucking good.
