Page 67 of Ruthless Arrangement

Now, his posture eases, the lethal edge softening as he accepts the whiskey I offer. His fingers brush mine, deliberate, and I catch the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. He’s The Diplomat, always calculating, always in control.

“The immediate threat is contained,” he says, voice smooth as the liquor he sips. “We’ll move to my penthouse tomorrow. It’s more secure now that Moretti knows this location.”

I nod, letting my fingers linger against his as I take my glass, the touch an artful move to draw him in. “You were right,” I say, infusing my tone with admiration, just enough to stroke his ego. “About the danger. About needing protection.”

His eyes narrow, a predator sizing up prey. He sees the shift in me, this new compliant, yielding version of Lea Song, and he’s dissecting it, searching for cracks. I step closer, invading his space the way he’s done to me countless times, my chest brushing his. “I’m not good at trusting people,” I admit, the truth a weapon in my arsenal my father taught me. “But you’ve been right about everything so far.”

Before he can respond, I strike. My lips crash against his, the kiss bold, feigned to disarm. For a split second, he freezes, caught off guard, but then his hand snakes to the nape of my neck, fingers twisting in my hair with a grip that’s anything but gentle. He kisses me back, hard and possessive, claiming my mouth like it’s his birthright.

“Interesting timing,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice a low, dangerous purr. A faint smile curves his mouth, dark with amusement. “After watching me crush a threat, you decide to spread your legs. What does that say about you, Lea?”

His words hit like a slap, sharp and cutting, exposing the raw truth I’m trying to hide. A mix of fear and heat is pooling low in my belly. He’s always analyzing, always one step ahead, peeling back my motives like layers of skin. I lean into the role, letting him think he’s got me pegged.

“Maybe I’m just tired of fighting the inevitable,” I say, my voice husky. It’s a lie wrapped in truth, and I pray he buys it.

His eyes bore into mine, piercing, and for a terrifying moment, I think he sees through me; through the journalist, the spy, the woman playing a dangerous game. Then his mouth descends again, punishing, his tongue forcing mine into submission. He backs me against the kitchen counter, the edge biting into my hips. One hand grips my ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise, while the other tugs my hair, tilting my head to expose my throat.

“The inevitability of this was written the moment you walked into my club,” he growls, his lips grazing my pulse point. “Pretending you’re just a journalist? That was cute, piccola. But we both know you’ve been wet for me since I broke that guitarist’s fingers.”

His teeth scrape the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder, and I gasp, the sound authentic as desire floods my core. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this; so raw, so consuming. I’m supposed to be in control, manipulating him, but my body betrays me, aching for his touch.

“I’m still a journalist,” I manage, clinging to my cover even as his hand slips under my blouse, palming my breast through my bra with a roughness that makes me arch.

He laughs, the sound dark and mocking, vibrating against my skin. “Sure you are. And I’m still The Diplomat. But right now, you’re not chasing a story. You’re begging for my cock.”

The crude words should disgust me, but they ignite something primal soaking my panties. He’s right, and I hate him for it. His fingers unbutton my blouse with agonizing slowness, each movement a display of absolute control. He’s not rushed, not desperate; a predator savoring his prey. The black lace of my bra is exposed, and his eyes rake over me, proprietary, hungry.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he commands, his voice low, dangerous, as he traces the edge of my bra, his thumb brushing my nipple through the lace.

“I’m thinking you talk too fucking much,” I snap, reaching for his belt in a bid to seize control, to shift the power back to me.

His hand catches my wrist like a steel trap, squeezing until I wince. “Patience, Lea,” he says, his tone a silken threat. “You don’t get to call the shots.” He pins me against the refrigerator, the cold metal shocking against my back. My wrists are trapped above my head in one of his hands, his grip unyielding. “Tonight, you learn who owns you.”

His free hand traces my collarbone, down the valley between my breasts, to the waistband of my jeans. “I’ve pictured this,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “Stripping you bare, fucking you until you scream my name. You thought you could play me, didn’t you? With those coy looks, that tight little skirt in my club?”

He unbuttons my jeans, the zipper’s slow descent a torture. “You got so wet watching me break that bastard’s hand,” he continues, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “Your pulse was racing, your thighs clenched. Don’t lie to me, Lea. Your body tells me everything.”

I try to move, to grind against him, but he holds me still, his strength overwhelming. “You’re getting off on this,” I accuse, trying to sound defiant, but my voice trembles with need.

“Damn right,” he says, his smile wolfish. “And so are you.” His hand slips inside my jeans, finding the soaked fabric of my panties. “Fuck, you’re drenched. What would your readers say, knowing their fearless journalist is dripping for the monster she’s supposed to expose?”

His fingers push the fabric aside, sliding through my slickness, teasing my entrance without entering. I bite my lip, stifling a moan, but a whimper escapes. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “So fucking desperate. Beg for it, Lea. Beg me to fuck you.”

I shake my head, clinging to some shred of pride, but he circles my clit with maddening precision, and my resolve crumbles. “Please,” I whisper, hating myself.

“Louder,” he demands, his fingers stilling.

“Please, Nico,” I gasp. “Take me to the bedroom and fuck me.”

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat. He just yanks my jeans and panties down in one brutal motion, leaving me exposed. He lifts me onto the counter, the granite cold against my bare ass, and spreads my thighs wide. “Not the bedroom. Right here,” he says, his voice rough. “Where you can’t hide from me.”

He drops to his knees, his breath hot against my core. “You prepared for me,” he notes, his palm gliding over my shaved skin. “Thought you could seduce me, control me. Cute.” His eyes meet mine, dark with promise. “Let’s see how you taste when you’re lying to me.”

His mouth closes over my clit, sucking hard, and I cry out, my hands gripping the counter’s edge. His tongue is relentless, flicking, circling, while two fingers thrust inside me, curling to hit that spot that makes my vision blur. The dual assault is devastating, his dominance absolute. “Fuck, you’re sweet,” he growls against me. “So fucking wet for me.”

I’m supposed to be playing him, but my body surrenders, my hips grinding against his face. My hands pull him closer, and he groans, the vibration pushing me closer to the edge. “That’s it,” he says, his voice muffled. “Ride my tongue, piccola. Show me how bad you need it.”

The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, my body convulsing as I scream his name. He doesn’t stop, licking me through every shudder until I’m whimpering, oversensitive. When he stands, his lips glisten with my arousal, and he doesn’t wipe it away, letting me see my surrender.

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