I thought you only fucked women.
Nestor
If it’s hot, I’m fucking it. I’m bisexual, you asshat.
Me
…Anyway, stay the fuck out of my office. And tell my assistant on your way out that they have been relieved of their duties. Security should be there in the next five minutes to escort both of you out.
Nestor
You’re an asshole.
Me
I would say I aim to please, but I fucking don’t. Stop breaking into my office and messing my shit up. If you try that shit again, I’ll invoice you for the furniture I have to replace.
Nestor
You petty bitch. You replace the furniture after I break in EVERY SINGLE TIME???
Me
Yes.
I pocket my phone without waiting for his response. Nestor is a headache. If given the chance, he will talk for eternity. Rolling my neck, I try to ease the tension that’s building up.
I need to shower.
Shifting the weight of my jacket to my other arm. I notice the inner pocket is puffed out slightly—too full. I don’tstuffanything in my jackets. It’s too messy.
My hand slides inside, slow and precise. Fingers brush over fabric. Lace. Soft. Delicate.
I draw it out. Pale blush. Expensive. Lingerie. I stare at it for a beat, my eyes narrowing at the lace like it’s committed a crime.
That. Fucking. Brat.
Something stirs behind my zipper. Tight. Inconvenient. I ignore it. This is neither the time nor place to be havingthatkind of reaction. And she is not the person to be reacting to.
Instead of being reactive and confronting her—because I know that’s what she’ll be expecting—I stuff the criminal lace back into the pocket. She wants to play, but she doesn’t know what the game is, or the rules. And soon she’ll find that you can’t win a game when you’re playing against a cheat.
Right. Shower.
As I heading to my room, my eyes wander toward her door that’s across from mine. The urge to scare her off is there…but I don’t listen to my urges. I didn’t spend the better half of two decades mastering them just to have a twenty-something-year-old come stomping all over my control.
Twisting my door handle, I step inside. The walls are a charcoal black, meant to swallow the light. Suffocate. Command. Every line is deliberate. Intention threads through every surface. This room isn’t for comfort. It’s for control. For silence. For order.
My king-sized bed sits in the center of the far wall, sheets pristine, not a wrinkle in sight. The two side tables are bare, save for the two matching minimalist lamps.
I set the jacket over the back of the chair behind my mahogany desk, the pale lace still in the pocket like a live grenade. Flipping open my laptop, I type a short email to Henderson.
Get in contact with the Mancinis. Make it clear that if they step foot on my property, I won’t hesitate to blow their heads off.
I don’t wait for a reply before I yank off my tie, unfasten my cuffs, and peel the shirt from my shoulders. The fabric never touches the floor. I fold it with mechanical precision and place it in the gray laundry bin tucked against the matte wall of my walk-in closet. Slipping off my pants and boxers, I fold them before they follow the shirt and tie.
The closet is black-on-black with suits lined like sentries, watches and cufflinks arranged like weaponry. Clean. Silent. Controlled.
I move through the space and into the adjoining hall. Slate tiles mute my footsteps. Light strips hum low along the ceiling, cutting sharp shadows through the corridor. My sanctuary.
