Eve doesn’t fill the silence.
Doesn’t try to soothe it with soft-spoken sympathy or dig for details about what set me off.
She just sits there—serene, composed, legs crossed, eyes half-lidded—as the hills blur past her window. Like we’re not cutting through winding roads at a pace that should fray nerves.
The woman has control. I’ll give her that.
It’s the second time in two days I’ve watched her wield it like a weapon.
And fuck, she looks like a siren doing it.
“You look good on my seat,” I say, eyes on the road, one hand gripping the wheel tight as I lean into the next curve. Because, like I said, it’s easier to fuck than feel.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the slow spread of her grin.
“I’d look even better on your cock.”
That’s my girl.
Heat flashes low and hard in my gut. The tension Grant lit in my chest funnels south, pooling sharp and fast behind my zipper.
Goddamn this woman.
This is what always happens.
Grant pisses me off until I can’t fucking see straight—then I end up balls-deep in someone until I can.
That’s why the Black Ledger prints money off me.
Because I don’t talk it out.
I fuck it out.
Hard. Rough. Repetitive.
Today won’t be any different.
Except this time, the distraction already happens to be in my car.
Smart. Controlled. And just dirty enough to make me wonder how far she’ll take it before she reminds me this is all part of the job.
And I respect that.
The brains behind the charm.
The plan she’s clearly putting into motion, piece by piece, trying to glue me and Grant back together. For the world’s sake. Not ours.
But it doesn’t change a thing.
I’m still pissed.
And I’m still hard.
And neither one of those problems is going to fix itself.
In my penthouse’s building, the second the elevator doors slide shut, she’s on me.
Fingers in my hair, nails dragging at the nape of my neck as she yanks me down to her mouth—open, hungry, wet.
