Page 92 of Trapped

My hand slid around her waist, finding her clit. I rubbed it in time with my thrusts, her body convulsing with each touch. Her moans were different this time, deeper, more primal. She was close.

“Come for me, Delilah.”

She screamed, her body locking up as she came hard, her muscles squeezing me like a vise. I kept thrusting, riding out her orgasm until I felt my own release building. With a final, deep thrust, I came inside her again, filling her up completely.

We stayed like that for a moment, both of us catching our breath. I slowly pulled out, watching my cum drip from her. She looked thoroughly fucked, her body spent and quivering.

I untied her, lifting her into my arms and carrying her to the bed. I laid her down gently, brushing her hair from her face.

“You did good,” I murmured, kissing her forehead. “I’ll get you that money.”

She smiled weakly, her eyes fluttering shut.

As she drifted off, my heart pounded. That post-nut clarity hit like a freight train. Delilah had been burning through cash faster than a forest fire. Vintage dresses and shit—sure, she liked them—but this was starting to feel off.

I slipped out of the bed, my gaze catching her laptop left carelessly open on the dresser. A move so unlike Delilah, who was always covering her tracks. Curiosity gnawed at me. Maybe it was the trust issues talking, but I needed to know.

I crossed the room quietly, opening her laptop. It hummed to life under my fingers, the screen lighting up to show her email logged in and open. My eyes darted to her bank notifications—too many recent transactions not to raise a flag.

I clicked it. Bank statements lined up like a breadcrumb trail of deceit. I went through the tabs, scanning the transactions. My jaw clenched as the pieces started falling into place. Large sums of money were disappearing into accounts I didn’t recognize. Dresses, my ass. She’d been lying to me.

Every transaction was a jab to my gut. Payments to suppliers, rent, design fees—she’d built something big behind my back. Every dollar I gave her was being funneled into her secret life.

I’d known from the beginning what this was. She wanted my money and protection. I’d agreed to it. Hell, I’d even liked it atfirst. But now it fucking wore on me. The more she took, the more I felt like nothing I gave her would ever be enough.

I turned back to the bed. The woman I calledprincipessastirred on the bed, murmuring something in her sleep. A storm brewed inside me. Mikhail and Dimitri were still threats, and now I had Delilah’s secret stacked on top.

I needed to confront her, but not tonight.

I closed the laptop with a snap.

THIRTY

DELILAH

The next day, I headed to the shop.

I told Santino I needed to stop at my apartment to pick up some items, but I made a detour on the way back to his place. I’d fixed the issue with the zoning permit and needed to unlock the door for the artist I’d hired to paint a mural on the white brick interior.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping on the lights. The empty space felt like a blank canvas, waiting for the artist’s touch to bring it to life. I busied myself with some paperwork at the counter, losing track of time as I reviewed invoices.

The door opened.

I looked up, my heart dropping when Santino strolled inside. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “I could ask you the same thing, principessa.”

I swallowed hard, my mind racing.

His eyes scanned the room, taking in the empty racks and boxes of merchandise. “What’s Retro Rose Boutique?”

I met his gaze steadily. “A store I’m opening.”

“For what?” he asked.

“Vintage clothing,” I whispered, relieved that he didn’t seem angry. “I wanted to make them more accessible. It’s a passion of mine. I thought…I hoped I could become more independent if I started my own business.”

Santino leaned against the counter, his gaze roving over the buckets of paint sitting next to the wall. “You let me believe you were a gold digger.”

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