Page 137 of The Contract

It doesn’t mean anything.

Now, if only I could believe that lie.

Then maybe I could also convince myself that I’ll be ready to walk away from Damien Wolfe in three days.

End this contract and never look back.

For some reason—a reason I know but don’t want to admit—the idea of that sickens me.

The ride to the stadium is torturous.

I should be focused on the game, on Calloway’s birthday, on anything other than the woman sitting next to me.

But all I can think about is how close she was to falling apart for me in my office.

If James and Marcus hadn’t walked in when they did, how far would Elena have let herself go? How far would I have let her take me?

She was unbuttoning my shirt, dragging her nails down my stomach, her hand so close to wrapping around my cock. The moment her fingers barely grazed me, I knew—I was fucking done for.

And now we’re in the back of my limo, rolling through the city, exactly how I imagined it the night I took her panties.

That night, I pictured it in excruciating detail—Elena, pressed against the cool leather seats, her legs spread for me, her head thrown back as I devoured her.

I thought about her gasping my name, moaning for me, her body trembling under my hands as I licked, sucked, and fucked her into oblivion.

I thought about pulling her into my lap, yanking that silky dress up around her waist, and slamming my cock inside her as the city blurred past us.

I thought about all the ways I’d ruin her.

And how much I’d fucking love every second of it.

I came so hard that night, fisting her panties in my hand, her name on my lips.

And now she’s right here.

Next to me.

So fucking close.

Her thigh brushes against mine every time the limo turns.

She’s chatting with Marcus and James, laughing, completely unaware that I’m sitting here, gripping my own knee to keep from grabbing her and finishing what she started.

She smells like vanilla and something sweet, something decadent—and I swear to fucking God, if I look at her lips one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.

Marcus is talking. James is making a joke. Elena is smiling.

And I?

I’m sitting here, drowning in frustration, shifting slightly in my seat because my cock is aching against my slacks, throbbing with the memory of her mouth, her hands, the fucking control she had over me in my office just now.

It’s ridiculous.

I’m ridiculous.

Because she is right here.

And I can’t touch her.

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