And the worst part is that, underneath it all, I feel aroused at being… claimed. I should resent it. He went behind my back and took care of things, and Ilikeit.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Okay,” I tell the empty air, my hands shaking. “Just breathe.”
Movement flickers at the edge of the property as I get up and prepare to go back inside. A groundskeeper, perhaps. Or maybe just a shadow.
My phone buzzes with a text from Sylvie.
Just to be clear,you’re golden. Tell Mr. K thank you for me, and the rest of Thierry.
What the hell did he do? Buy the place out? I’ve never seen Sylvie this grateful.
A chime sounds from the phone. It’s a calendar invite from an unknown number blocking every Thierry shift through New Year’s as approved leave. The efficiency is surgical. I hate it. I also admire it.
I stand there, stunned, ribbon soft against my skin, wondering what surprises “Mr. K” will have for me next.
CHAPTER 10
DAMIEN
It’s late morning, and Midtown is bright and cold.
On the table in my office are surveillance photos and reports of various happenings around the city. I mark patterns with a pencil, drawing a thin red line from each cluster to the same name: Ivan. Movement is happening around town, and I’m sure he has something to do with it all. The map is clear, yet messy at the same time.
I close my eyes for a second, memories of last night pouring in. Cassandra on her knees, ribbon bright against her wrists, eyes locked on mine. My hand tips her chin.
“Stand.”
She obeys.
Her breath counts with mine, slow at first, then quicker. When she holds position, I reward her—my mouth at her throat, a deliberate bite, my palm warm at her spine.
“Good girl,” I say, feeling her shiver travel the length of my arm.
I open my eyes and file the memory where it belongs. But damn, is she distracting.
Another memory slices through, sharp and unbidden.
Cassandra on all fours, her bare feet shifting as she settles into place, her eyes locked on mine, fierce despite her trembling breath.
I slide the silk ribbon around her wrists, watching her back arch, her full breasts lifting, nipples hard, her perfect pussy glistening in the low light. The sight of her surrender hardens my cock, a pulse of desire I can’t ignore.
I kiss the corner of her mouth, her breath hitching as my teeth graze her jaw. My cock throbs, the memory searing, urging me to claim her.
“Chin up,” I say, and she lifts it, exposing her throat. “Wider,” I command, nudging her knees apart, her pussy there for me, slick and ready. “Hold.”
Her moans—raw and needy—unravel something in me, a knot of control and want. On all fours with her ass raised, she’s a vision of submission, her body trembling under my gaze. I trace her spine, fingers lingering at her lower back, her soft gasps fueling my hunger, my cock straining as the memory burns brighter, demanding I relive every second.
The door opens without a knock. There are only two people who are allowed to do that. I don’t look up until the paperwork lands on the table.
“Mina,” I say.
“Damien.”
Mina Kozlova moves with purpose. An elegant black widow’s ring catches the light, her hair in a twist a storm couldn’t undo. She’s my older brother’s widow, my partner by law and by choice. Loyal to the family with the kind of focus you wish you could bottle and sell.
“Accounting flagged an invoice you routed,” she says. Her voice is silk pulled taut over piano wire. She lays a folder between a Koretsky still and a map of a Red Hook lease. “Didn’t take much brainpower to see that you’ve ordered yourself an early Christmas present.”
