“The conversation between your fingers and someone else’s skin.
This is the most important discussion you can ever have.”
—Iain Thomas
Fuck, I’m exhausted. I’m already unbuttoning my shirt before I reach my room.
Among planning my hit on Murphy, prepping our next pickup, and avoiding Emmy Highland, I’ve been consumed. My blood is on overtime pumping through my veins, and the pressure mounting behind my eyes is barely being held together by a thread.
I’m past due for a kill, and my body sure as shit knows it.
Doesn’t help that I’ve gone over a week with hardly any sleep, thanks to a little mouse occupying my bed. I never did figure out what the hell she was up to when I caught her trying to sneak into the basement last week, but it no longer matters. Aubrey reports that she’s been good, no shady shit, so I’m having her moved back to her old room by the end of the day.
I push the door open and stroll across the room, tossing my phone on the dresser and pressing my forefingers and thumb to my temples. Sometimes I think the pressure is thick enough to cut with a knife. I doubt a few hours of sleep will make a difference, but I can’t get any shut-eye in the guest room. The pent-up energy coursing through me is threatening to make me do something—or someone—I’ll regret if I don’t shut it the fuck down.
I resume undoing my shirt when a movement to my left stills me. I glance over to find Emmy standing in the middle of my goddamn room. Her hair is bunched to one side and cascading down her waist. A silk slip hangs on her curves, barely reaching the tops of her smooth, porcelain thighs.
Tension squeezes my muscles to the point it’s painful. I grit my jaw, my eyes narrowing on hers because if I let them wander lower, she’ll discover firsthand the reason I abstain.
“Did I fail to make your schedule clear?”
She shakes her head and starts to approach me. My expression must make her rethink because she stops and retreats a step.
“Thenwhyare you standing in front of me at nine-thirty in the morning? And why the fuck didn’t I already know about it?” I snatch up my phone, ready to chew Aubrey out, when five missed texts highlight the screen.
Aubrey: Little situation with your claim, Master.
Aubrey: She won’t leave your room.
Aubrey: As in, she is standing in your room.
Aubrey: I really hope you get this.
Aubrey: Testing one, two, three ...
My fingers squeeze the phone before I set it back down. Then I fix my glare on the mouse instead.
She swallows, juts out her chin, and murmurs, “I’m here to serve you.”
Fucking Jesus.
Heat flares under the surface of my skin. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I turn back to my dresser, fighting to keep my movements controlled as I pull the middle drawer open.
“Believe me, you are serving me by staying in the kitchen. Now leave.”
“No.”
Slowly, I turn back to her. “What was that?”
She clears her throat, but her fiery expression doesn’t waver. “No,sir.”
My blood runs hot, her words waking my cock without my permission.
She carefully moves forward. “I’m here to serveyou, and right now”—closing the distance between us, she reaches toward me. When her fingers touch the partially undone buttons of my shirt, brushing bare skin in the process, I tense—“you look like you could use me.”
She undoes a button, then her fingers drift lower and she works on the next. I should tell her to get the hell out. Reassign her to one of my brothers. But having her this close, her exhales teasing my skin, her floral scent flooding my nostrils, black hair close enough to fist—it’s fucking with my sleep-deprived head.
“Don’t test me, mouse,” I growl softly. “You know a lot less than you think.”
