Page 24 of Ruthless Arrangement

Lea’s eyes flick over. She caught the movement, and I don’t look away. I hold Lea’s gaze, daring her to react as I rest my hand on Loretta’s thigh. Not kneading, not caressing. Just resting there. A statement of ownership. Loretta doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react at all beyond a slight, almost imperceptible intake of breath. Her stillness only amplifies my control over her.

“You like this, don’t you?” I mutter, voice rough, meant entirely for Lea, though my hand remains on Loretta’s leg. My thumb makes a slow, deliberate circle against the fabric of her dress. Loretta stays perfectly still, a beautiful, breathing prop in the psychological game I’m playing with the woman on my other side. My focus narrows on Lea, the way her eyes are fixed on my hand resting on another woman. My arousal spikes, sharp and visceral, fueled not by Loretta, but by the possessive display, by the control, by the conflict warring in Lea’s dark eyes. I’m picturing Lea under me, naked, pinned, that smart mouth gasping my name while I fuck her raw. She’d fight it at first, all defiance and sharp edges, but she’d break so fucking beautifully, begging me to take her harder, deeper.

Elise’s screams onstage bring me back. She’s coming undone as Miguel growls something filthy, his hand relentless between her thighs. The sound tips me closer to losing control. My cock throbs painfully, demanding release. Loretta shifts almost imperceptibly beside me, aware of my state, but makes no move, awaiting command. And Lea’s right there on the other side, close enough I can smell that jasmine on her skin. I look straight into her wide eyes, imagining destroying her composure piece by piece. She’d hate how much she’d love it, and that’s what’s got me burning, knowing I’ll have her soon, in any way I fucking want.

I’m close, fuck, so close to doing something reckless, when there’s a knock, sharp and unwelcome. One of my guys steps in, voice low. “Boss, warehouse confirmation is in. Moretti’s crew set the meeting.” My chest’s heaving, my hand still resting possessively on Loretta’s thigh, but I nod, forcing control back into my voice. “Good. We’re done here.” I remove my hand from Loretta’s leg as if dismissing an object, not acknowledging her further. She rises and slips away, disappearing with the same quiet discretion she arrived with. I’m left aching, half-feral with need I can’t unleash yet. Business first. Always fucking business.

I stand, straightening my jacket, my body humming with frustrated arousal. The timing is deliberate. Moretti knows what he’s doing, sending this message now. The warehouse meeting has been in discussion for days; confirmation could have come at any time. That it arrives when I’m otherwise occupied is no coincidence. A small power play, testing my responsiveness, my priorities.

Lea rises beside me, her composure visibly strained. The flush in her face, the shaky hands as she gathers her notebook, these small tells betray what she’s trying so hard to hide. I find satisfaction in knowing she’ll lie awake tonight, replaying what she witnessed, what she felt.

“We’re leaving,” I tell her, not a request. My voice still carries the rough edge of arousal, and I make no effort to soften it. Let her hear what she does to me. Let her wonder what might have happened had we not been interrupted.

Elise and Miguel halt their act, their gazes finding mine, awaiting my signal. A single dip of my chin is their dismissal, their cue to undo the bindings. Loretta’s already vanished. That quiet exit is why I keep her around. Maybe I’ll summon her later, have her take the edge off. But not tonight. For now, this throb low in my gut is fuel, honing my concentration for what comes next.

Out in the hall, Lea strides a few paces in front, her walk fast, purposeful, like putting space between us can somehow rebuild the composure I shattered. I let her escape for a moment, my own steps unhurried as I track the stiffness in her back, the way she holds herself so tightly wound.

The club’s main floor is a blur of light and sound as we pass through. My staff recognize my focused expression and give us a wide berth. No one approaches, no one speaks. The crowd parts instinctively, creating a path toward the private elevator that will take us to the garage level where my car waits.

The elevator doors close, encasing us, as the quiet between us prickles. I put myself across from her, leaning a shoulder against the wall, drinking in her profile while she makes a show of watching the floor numbers drop. The confined car fills with her perfume and the undeniable current of thwarted need.

“You’re quiet, Ms. Song,” I observe, my tone casual. “No questions? No observations for your article?”

Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “I’m still processing the experience.”

“Are you?” I smile. “And what conclusions are you reaching?”

The elevator reaches the garage level, doors sliding open with a soft chime. Lea steps out quickly, too quickly, betraying her eagerness to escape the intimate confines we shared. My driver stands beside the waiting car, opening the rear door as we approach.

Lea slides into the back seat, arranging herself as far from the center as possible. A futile gesture. The interior of the Bentley might be spacious, but no physical distance will erase what passed between us in that room. I settle beside her, close enough that she can feel my body heat but not quite touching. A planned intrusion into her space that mirrors what I’m doing to her mind.

“Warehouse Five,” I instruct my driver. “No rush.” The privacy partition rises, sealing us into our own world as the car glides out of the garage and into the night.

For several blocks, we ride in silence. I don’t fill it, content to let her discomfort build, to let her wrestle with the questions she both wants and fears to ask. Her fingers twist in her lap, a rare display of nervous energy from someone who usually maintains such careful control.

Finally, I decide to probe the wound. “So, Ms. Song,” I begin, my voice pitched low, intimate, “did the performance meet your expectations?”

She swallows, a muscle in her jaw tightening. “It was…professionally executed.”

“Indeed.” I shift, angling my body toward hers. “The Martinez duo are among the best in their field. But I wasn’t asking about their technical proficiency.”

Her gaze remains fixed on the city lights sliding past the tinted windows. “What were you asking, then?”

“Whether it stirred anything in you.” I lean closer, invading more of her space. “Whether you recognized something of yourself in Elise’s surrender. Or perhaps in Miguel’s control.”

Now she looks at me, eyes flashing with defiance. “I was observing, Mr. Varela. That’s what journalists do.”

“Was that all you were doing?” I reach for her wrist, my fingers encircling it before she can pull away. Beneath my thumb, her pulse is a frantic, betraying rhythm that contradicts her composed expression.The frantic beat against my skin fuels the ache low in my belly.“You can claim you were just observing, but your heart was racing as much as mine, piccola. Still is. And this kind of racing beat comes not from fear or repulse, but from excitement.”

She tries to jerk her hand away, but I hold firm, not hurting her but making it clear she won’t break my grip unless I allow it. “Let go,” she says, her voice low but steady.

“In a moment.” I stroke my thumb over her wrist, feeling the rush of blood beneath her skin. “First, I want you to admit something to yourself, if not to me. What you saw tonight affected you. Not as a journalist. As a woman.”

Anger flashes in her eyes, but there’s something else there too, a vulnerability she’s desperate to hide. “You’re the one who arranged that whole display. Brought in that woman to…to…”

“To what, Lea?” I press, enjoying her discomfort, the way she can’t bring herself to name what she witnessed. “Say it.”

“To parade her?” she finally spits out, cheeks flushing darker. “To use her like some kind of prop while you watched me watching your disgusting performance? Like I was supposed to be intimidated, or jealous, or whatever sick game you were playing by putting your hands all over her right in front of me?”

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