I should leave. Find another room. Put distance between us before I do something stupid like strip her naked and finish what we started.
Instead I sit on the bed, just out of reach.
"Water," I say. "You need water."
"In a minute." She's still staring at me, her gaze tracking down to the obvious bulge in my pants. "You didn't..."
"No." My voice comes out rougher than I intend, like gravel scraping over steel. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight with the effort of restraint.
"That's not fair." She props herself up further on her elbows now, and I force myself to look away from how her dress has ridden up her thighs, how her skin is still flushed pink from what I did to her. The scent of her arousal fills the room, making my control feel threadbare and fragile.
"The contract—" I start, gripping my knees hard enough that my knuckles go white, trying to anchor myself to something solid and professional. To the mission parameters. To the boundaries I've already crossed and can't afford to obliterate completely.
"Screw the contract," she interrupts, pushing herself up on one elbow. The movement makes her dress slide off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her breast. "I don't think I'm paying you enough."
Despite everything, despite the ache in my cock and the primitive urge to claim her properly, I feel my mouth twitch.
"We will discuss overtime rates later," I grunt, standing before I do something that breaks every professional boundary I've ever maintained.
Her giggle follows me to the bathroom, bright and unhinged and absolutely perfect.
CHAPTER 7
COLLETTA
Iwake up to sunlight stabbing through the gauzy curtains like it has a personal vendetta against my eyeballs.
Everything hurts.
My head throbs with the dull, persistent ache of too much champagne and not enough water. My throat feels raw, scratchy in a way that makes me remember exactly why, which sends a fresh wave of mortification crashing through my skull. My thighs are sore. My lips are tender and swollen.
Oh god.
I sit up too fast and the room tilts sideways. The heart-shaped bed mocks me with its pink satin nightmare aesthetic. Beside me, the sheets are cool and empty, perfectly smooth except where I've turned myself into a burrito of shame.
Where is he?
I strain to listen past the pounding in my temples. Water running in the bathroom. The low rumble of what might be humming, except Kruk doesn't seem like the humming type. Maybe he's performing some Orcish morning ritual that involves chanting about tactical superiority.
Last night comes back in flashes that make me want to burrow under the duvet and never emerge.
The kiss in front of everyone. Derek's face turned purple. Stumbling back to the room while Kruk's hand burned through the thin fabric of my dress. The door slamming shut behind us and then his mouth, his hands, his body pinning me against the wood like I weighed nothing, like I was something precious and breakable that he still couldn't stop himself from claiming.
His mouth between my legs.
The way I came apart on his tongue, fingers twisted in his hair, thighs shaking so hard I couldn't have stood if my life depended on it.
I press my face into the pillow and make a noise somewhere between a whimper and a scream.
This is a disaster. This is a professional relationship. I hired him to pretend to be my boyfriend, not to give me the most intense orgasm of my entire life while I was pressed against a door like we were in some dark paranormal romance novel.
Except it wasn't pretend. Not the kiss, not what happened after. The way he touched me felt real, raw, like he was staking a claim he had every intention of keeping.
The bathroom door opens.
I freeze, still half-buried under the pink comforter, one eye peeking out like a woodland creature assessing predator threat levels.
Kruk emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Water beads on his shoulders, runs down the planes of his chest, follows the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the white terry cloth. His skin is bronze and scarred, muscles shifting under the surface with every movement. The tribal tattoos that crawl up his neck look darker when wet, like fresh ink.
