Page 32 of The Contract

Now I know exactly how Elena Moreau operates.

I know the way her body moves, the way she sounds when she’s coming apart in my hands, the way she takes me so deep that my vision goes white at the edges.

I groan, dragging a rough hand down my face before reaching for the crystal tumbler beside me. The whiskey burns on the way down, but not nearly enough to erase the memory of her.

I should be focused on the contract—on ensuring this arrangement plays out exactly as intended: with precision, without complication. Instead, I can’t seem to get the taste of her out of my goddamn head.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I set my glass down before glancing at the screen.

Cal.

I nearly forgot about the request I made earlier today—the one that now seems so fucking irrelevant.

I swipe to answer. “Hey, Cal.”

The familiar hum of Ember & Ash fills the background—muted conversation, the subtle clink of fine crystal against white linen.

“I looked into that reservation you asked about,” Cal says, his voice smooth and professional.

My other hand slips into my pocket, my fingers brushing against something soft and delicate. It takes me a second to realize what I’m holding.

A small scrap of black silk and lace.

I go still.

Her panties.

My chest tightens as I drag my thumb over the delicate fabric, remembering exactly how they ended up in my pocket.

She had slipped them off last night, her dress and bra on the floor behind me as I told her to spread her legs for me—all soft sighs and creamy skin. And I—like a fucking deviant—had tucked them away after rubbing them against my cock.

Did she run out so quickly she forgot them?

No.

Not a chance.

That dress she wore last night was barely enough to cover her perfect ass. She left them on purpose.

A slow smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. My little mystery woman wanted to leave a parting gift to remember her by.

Well, who would I be to refuse her offering?

I bring the lace up to my nose, inhaling the faintest trace of her scent—warm, sweet, decadent.

Cal clears his throat on the other end of the line, oblivious to my distraction. “The hostess confirmed the young woman dined alone. Her name is Elena Moreau. She’s a frequent guest under The Ledger’s account.”

I stiffen.

For a moment, I don’t move.

Of course, I learned earlier today that she was a Companion. It’s another thing to hear it spoken aloud.

Elena Moreau.

A Ledger girl.

A professional.

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