A shiver runs through me. My lips part without hesitation, my breath coming fast as I stare up at him, wide-eyed, waiting.He brings the two fingers he was just using to explore the most intimate part of my body and drags them along my lower lip, spreading my arousal there. I lick my lips without thinking, the salty and sweet taste of my desire bursting across my tongue from his possessive and claiming touch.
“Open wider, stick out your tongue”. And I do. Quickly.
“What a good little whore,” he murmurs. Without breaking eye contact, he bends down, his nose nearly grazing mine, and he spits into my waiting mouth.
The warm slickness lands on my tongue, sharp with the taste of vodka and the faint salt of him. My breath shudders as I hold his gaze, my pulse hammering. The degradation of it sends a dark thrill spiraling through me, hot and dizzying.
“Swallow,” he commands, his voice low, unwavering.
And I do. My tongue curls around the taste before I let it slide down my throat, a quiet moan slipping free as I lick my lips, savoring him. I’m lost to the desire to be used by him, my fight having left the estate only five minutes into dinner.
His smirk deepens at my moan, his fingers tightening against my jaw. “Such a good girl, darling,” he murmurs approvingly. “So eager to be used.”
Heat floods me, shame and desire tangling into something I can’t fight. I should hate this. I should push him away.
Instead, I nod. Silent. Obedient. Ready formore.
But there is no more.
The phone ringing startles me against Hayden's chest. With a frustrated sigh, he pushes me back and abandons me on the table as the double doors open and a footman comes in carrying a telephone on a silver tray. Moving quickly across the room, he answers it.
The other set of doors are thrown open in perfect timing as the butler begins tidying the mess that was made on the dining table. With red cheeks aflame from both embarrassment and theposition the help clearly witnessed me in, I hop off the grand dining table and straighten my dress.
I can’t hear what Hayden is saying, but he sets the receiver down and is back over to me in less than a second, grabbing my chin with a punishing grip.
“I’m leaving, and this is your warning to behave,” he growls, and I force myself to bite back a sharp retort. Before I can think of a more well-behaved response, he’s leaving the dining room, and I’m standing in the grand room, very cold and very alone.
Hayden Herron
The request was simple: retrieve the documents, hand them off, and ask no questions. It should have been a clean job. But nothing in my life ever comes without complications. Now I'm being called away again, this time to uncover precisely what Archibald and I pulled from that safe.
The moment I got the call, I knew it was an order to return to our assignment. It’s always been like this—we receive orders, trails to follow, tails to chase, and like good soldiers, we follow commands, knowing eventually we’ll be the leaders of the world, relying on the next batch of brand new Bonesmen to carry out our dirty work.
The drive to the meeting place is long enough to give me too much time to think, which is a problem in itself. I hate being left alone with my thoughts. They creep in, digging under my skin like splinters I can't pull out. The mansion I left behind is a world of indulgence, but this? This is reality. And reality is a far less forgiving mistress.
I arrive at the designated location, an old estate just outside of town, once grand but now standing in quiet decay. The man waiting inside doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
“You and Franklin retrieved some significant papers last week,” he says, cutting straight to the point.
I lean against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “That's what we were told.”
His lips curl into something not quite a smile. “And now you’re going to find out why they're important.”
I exhale sharply. “Not my problem.”
“It is now.”
He slides a folder across the desk. I don’t pick it up immediately, letting the silence hang between us — a test of patience. He breaks first.
“Martine’s mother is connected to those documents,” he says, lowering his voice as if sharing some great revelation. “I assume you understand the implications.”
I do. And I don’t like them.
Taking the folder, I open it. The contents are dense, comprising pages upon pages of reports, financial records, and a stack of black-and-white photos that hint at something much larger than a simple mission.
Margaux Belmont.
Martine’s mother.
