Fuck. Never thought of that. But I shut it down fast. I can’t protect her if she’s outside our net.
“I’ve got a plan,” I say. “A housewarming party and belated wedding reception.”
I drain my drink. My pocket buzzes. I pull out Marlowe’s phone.
Leon. Fucking again.
My fingers tighten around the device. Tor’s stillworking the bigger picture: Mario, the cops, the cartel. My petty, private jealousy can wait.
For a minute.
I leave them to it and stomp up the stairs, sidetracked by Leon’s call. I don’t knock. I never do with her. I just open the door to find my dirty exhibitionist with the danger kink.
Of course it’s not locked.
My heart thumps hard, blood rushing south at the sight of her curled on the bed in an oversized t-shirt, book in hand. She puts it down. Lust and hate tangle in her gaze, and my cock jerks in response.
“Leon called again,” I say. Maybe I should have him properly looked into, but he hasn’t actually hurt Molly. Yet. I still don’t like him. I don’t trust him. But that doesn’t mean I can’t use him. “Invite him.”
She frowns. “To what?”
The door’s wide open. I step inside, push her back on the bed, part her thighs, and nudge her panties aside to slide my fingers into her. Her gaze flicks to the open doorway, and she lets out a low, desperate sound.
Fuck, she’s hot with her weird little kink.
I bring her right up to the edge, the panting and the way her body arches telling me exactly where she is.
“Molly girl, you’re fucking hot,” I say, pulling my fingers free and shoving them into her mouth. “Suck.”
Anger flashes in her eyes, but she does as she’s told, tongue working my fingers like they’re my cock. I make a quiet promise to myself to let her spend a long, slow time worshipping the real thing next round.
“You asked me a question,” I remind her, pulling my fingers from her mouth and dragging a wet line down her throat to the neckline of her shirt. “I owe you an answer.”
I step back, my pants too tight, my brain even tighter.
“We’re having a housewarming and belated wedding reception,” I say. “Invite Leon if you want.”
Suspicion sharpens her features. “What are you up to?”
I move to the doorway, already half gone, pulse beating hard with the shape of the plan forming in my head.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, Molly,” I say, glancing back at her, spread out, flushed, eyes glassy and confused, “I insist you invite him.”
Because if Leon’s the wolf at her door, I want him walking throughmine—with every Murphy gun pointed right at his heart.
EIGHTEEN
marlowe
For someonewho keeps saying we need to talk, Leon has turned avoidance into an art form.
I stare at my phone screen the next day, his name lurking like a loaded gun in my recent calls, and when the call goes to voicemail yet again, I come within a breath of throwing my phone at the wall.
That’s when my bedroom door opens.
And the bane of my existence walks in.
The problem is, this particular bane is also my favorite fantasy in flesh. Declan Murphy. Ruiner of sanity. Walking contradiction. Part cartel nightmare, part patron saint of animals, part man who can wring orgasms out of me like it’s his religion.
