Page 70 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Fuck you,” she spits, but her voice cracks, her body trembling.

I laugh, and thrust into her, hard and deep, filling her in one brutal stroke. She screams, her walls clenching around my cock. “That’s it,” I growl, pulling out and slamming back in, setting a punishing rhythm. “Take it, you little slut. Take every fucking inch.”

Her moans are loud, uncontrolled, the bed creaking under us as I fuck her from behind, my hand still fisted in her hair, pulling hard enough to make her gasp. “You like this, don’t you?” I say, my voice rough. “Getting fucked like a whore by the man you’re trying to destroy. Your pussy’s so wet, it’s dripping down your thighs.”

“Shut up,” she gasps, but her hips meet every thrust, her body betraying her.

I spank her ass again, the sound loud in the room, and she cries out, her walls fluttering around me. “Don’t fucking tell me to shut up,” I snarl, forcing her to arch further. “You’re gonna take this cock and love every second of it.”

I’m close, my balls tightening, but I want her to come with me, to feel her shatter around me. I lean forward, spitting on her exposed asshole, the act filthy and possessive. She gasps, shocked, and I jab a finger deep inside her ass, no warning, no gentleness. She moans, loud and raw, her body tensing, then relaxing as pleasure overtakes her.

“Fuck, Nico!” she cries, her voice a mix of surprise and ecstasy. “Oh God?—”

“That’s right,” I growl, pumping my finger in time with my thrusts, my cock driving into her pussy, my finger stretching her ass. “Come for me, Lea. Come all over my cock while I fuck your tight little holes.”

She’s trembling, her moans turning to sobs as the pleasure builds, and I feel her walls clench, her body seizing as she comes, her scream ripping through the room. Her pussy milks my cock, and it’s too much. I follow her over the edge, my release hitting like a freight train, spilling deep inside her with a guttural groan.

We collapse onto the bed, both panting, sweat-slick and spent. I pull out, watching my cum drip from her, marking her as mine. She’s trembling, her face flushed, her body marked with my handprints, my bites. I pull her close against me, my arm around her waist, and she curls into me, her breath ragged.

“You think you can play me,” I murmur against her ear, my voice low, dangerous. “But you’re mine, Lea. Every lie, every scheme, every fucking inch of you. Try to run, and I’ll drag you back.”

She leaves for the bathroom and as I stare at the ceiling, my mind’s already shifting to the war ahead. Lea’s dangerous, a fucking liability, but she’s my liability.

* * *

An hour later,she emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I’m already dressed in the suit Marco brought from my penthouse, charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes, a burgundy tie that matches the sheets she writhed against earlier.

Lea heads for the bedroom to get dressed, and once she’s out of sight, I position my laptop at a specific angle, one that ensures she’ll be able to see the screen if she glances over when she returns. Then I open an email thread I’ve prepared in advance.

From: Dr. Reginald Hammon To: Nico VarelaSubject: Academic Conference Sponsorship RequestMr. Varela,Following our discussion at last month’s charity gala, I’m writing to formally request your consideration for sponsorship of our upcoming International Economic Systems Conference. As mentioned, we’ve secured several distinguished speakers, including Professor Eunji Song, whose work on shadow economies has generated significant interest among policy makers.Professor Song’s lecture series, “Invisible Networks: How Unofficial Systems Sustain Global Commerce,” will be the centerpiece of our program. Given your foundation’s interest in international business relations, I believe this would align with your philanthropic goals.Please let me know if you require any additional information.Regards,Dr. Reginald Hammon, Chair of Economics DepartmentChicago University.

I hear the bedroom door open and continue scrolling through emails as if absorbed in my morning correspondence. From the corner of my eye, I catch Lea’s entrance, now dressed in fitted jeans and a simple blue blouse that brings out the warmth in her skin. She moves with a careful stiffness she attempts to disguise, favoring one side, a detail I file away with grim satisfaction. The morninglessonleft its mark.

She moves to the kitchen to refill her coffee, but her path takes her behind me. I feel the moment her eyes catch on the screen, the subtle pause in her movement, the hitch in her breath. She thinks I don’t notice, but I register every nuance.

“More coffee?” she offers, her voice steady, though perhaps a fraction huskier than usual. A deliberate performance of normalcy.

“Please,” I respond, clicking to another email as if unaware of her interest.

She returns with my refilled mug, setting it beside my laptop with perhaps more care than necessary, avoiding any sudden movements. She moves to the other side of the table, settling into her chair with a subtle adjustment I interpret as easing sore muscles.

“This conference sounds interesting,” she says, careful to keep her tone casual. “My mother mentioned something about a lecture series, but I didn’t realize it was such a big event.”

I glance up, regarding her with mild interest. Her eyes meet mine, a challenge beneath the pleasant inquiry. She’s putting on a brave face, pretending last night didn’t rattle her, didn’t break something inside her even as her body surrendered. “Your mother is quite respected in academic circles. Her work on shadow economies is groundbreaking.” I pause, watching her eyes. “Have you read any of her research?”

She shakes her head, a flicker of genuine emotion, regret, perhaps, crossing her features. “Not as much as I should have. We don’t talk about her work often.”

“Interesting,” I murmur, filing away the nugget of genuine information. “Most daughters would be proud of such academic achievements.”

Something darkens in her expression, a touch of real hurt breaking through the performance. “I am proud of her. We just have different interests.”

I nod, allowing the subject to drop though I’ve confirmed what I suspected: there’s distance between Lea and her mother, an emotional gap I might exploit. Knowledge is currency in my world, and I’ve just acquired another valuable coin.

“We should leave within the hour,” I say, changing the subject. “Marco will meet us at the penthouse with updates on Moretti’s movements.”

She nods, sipping her coffee. Her grip on the mug is tight, knuckles white. She’s processing, analyzing, likely trying to reconcile the tenderness I showed her later with the brutality that preceded it. Good. Let her be confused. Let her remain off balance. “I’ll be ready.”

* * *

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