My little rose is going to sorely regret the day she tried to screw me over.
SEVEN
Connor
It used to be that long showers were my go-to for washing away the bullshit of the day. But that was before I got hit with the kind of news that makes you rethink everything. Health is wealth? Yeah, I got schooled on that recently, hard and fast.
I clench my jaw as scalding water pounds over my back, turning my skin a shade of red that screams for mercy. I crank it hotter.
Music pulses from the surround sound, the throbbing bass vibrating the tiles like a heartbeat. That damn doctor’s words keep repeating in my head, no matter how loud I turn up the volume.
“Every case is unique,” he said. “We can’t predict how it will progress. All we can do is try to manage it.”
I’m usually exceptional at keeping my emotions in check. Like when some snake who’s been working with us for years stabs me in the back—yeah, I get pissed, but then I move on. No use dwelling on it. Same goes for bad press—take it in stride and recalibrate.
But this apparent diagnosis . . . this came out of left field. Uncharted territory. I don’t handle unknowns too gracefully.
Funny thing is, I always thought my biggest fears were about my business tanking or something happening to my family—Killian, Mom, my niece Teagan. But now, there’s a new terror in town—my own body turning against me.
The irony’s not lost on me. Spent all those years in my twenties thinking I was invincible, partying nonstop and pushing every limit without a care in the world. Now, it feels like my body’s calling in debts, payback for every wild night and reckless decision.
I drag my fingers through my hair, rinsing the last suds. If this diagnosis crap weren’t hanging over my head, I would’ve already hunted down that sneaky little thief.
I have zero tolerance for liars. It wasn’t some random hookup. She just got lucky because I was too wasted to see the red flags.
My guys will find her, it’s just a matter of time. And when they do . . . well, I haven’t decided how I’ll handle her yet.
Part of me wants to teach her a hard lesson for that act she pulled. Bend her over my knee and spank that perky ass red until she’s screaming apologies. Then call the cops to haul her away.
But she’s taken up enough of my time already. Which is why it pisses me off that she’s still on my mind.
Especially here in my private office shower.
With a deep, frustrated groan, I grip my throbbing cock. The thought of punishing her makes me so fucking hard.
With one hand braced against the tiled wall, I stroke myself with savage urgency, like a man possessed, my mind consumed by images of her bending over in front of me, taking every inch of me.
I’m an ass guy—always have been. And she has an ass that was built for slapping and bouncing up and down on my cock.
God, the way she’d moan, her voice husky and breathless as I pound into her tight pussy, gripping her hips and leaving marks behind.
With one final grunt I release hard and fast, spilling my load down the drain.
Damn that woman.
I shut off the water with an irritated swipe and roughly towel off.
It’s just bruised my ego. I don’t really give a damn about the thief or the car. They’re both distractions from what really matters.
I’m half-dressed, stepping into my black slacks, when Killian storms in like he owns the place, all polished in his tuxedo and radiating that post-vacation glow only a week in Hawaii can give you. His cheerfulness is almost offensive.
“Ever heard of knocking, man?” I say, not bothering to lift my gaze as I wrestle with my belt. “Could be balls out naked in here for all you know.”
Killian sprawls back in the leather armchair. “Tragically, little brother, your balls aren’t anything I haven’t seen before.”
I yank on my dress shirt with enough force to rip it in half.
“I see your sunny mood hasn’t improved.”
