Page 47 of Seeking Vengeance

I’m not doing it anymore.

Benji is gone. And Matthew is only temporary.

I need to start enjoying this for what it is and leave the comparisons behind.

What I need is champagne.

I grab the bottle, pour myself a glass, and sip what has to be excessively expensive alcohol. And all the while, Matthew’s touch haunts me like a ghost.

The memory of his lips on my neck.

The tingle from where his firm hands spread my thighs.

The more I drink, the more he fills my head. Not only sexually, but how he rescued me, too. The way he cradled me in the back of his car. The cadence in his words as he promised to look after me.

I push to my feet, wobble with the sudden shot vertical, then place my glass on the floor and grab a towel.

In less than two minutes I’m cocooned in a plush hotel robe, the champagne bottle in my hand along with the glasses as I pad to the end of the hall and find Matthew on the sofa.

He’s hunched forward, elbows on knees, his back to me as he talks on his cell in snarled tones. “Tell him this is unacceptable. We had an agreement.”

I wait there, not wanting to interrupt, not willing to get in the way of his work.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he snaps. “I think you know me well enough to understand I’m livid right now.”

I stiffen at his vehemence, never having heard it before, and the glasses clink in my hand.

“I’ve gotta go.” He straightens. “Layla is out of the bath.”

I wince, wishing I’d been more discreet even though I refuse to be a snoop.

“She’s doing well.” Matthew glances at me over his shoulder, his annoyance nowhere in sight as he takes me in with appreciation. “The swelling is getting worse on her cheek, and there are marks on her arm, too. But she’s strong.”

My stomach warms with the compliment. With resurging lust and need, too.

I approach, placing the bottle and glasses on the table in front of him, remaining a foot away. I take him in while he leans back, relaxing into the sofa like a king atop his throne, one arm stretching along the headrest, an ankle crossing over his knee.

“Handle the situation, Bishop. Thoroughly.” He rakes his gaze down the length of me, his eyes hungry. “I’ll be ready to fly out at five.” He disconnects the call and places the device on the far cushion. “You’re flushed.”

“It’s the champagne,” I lie.

It’s definitely him. All him.

He leans forward, reaching out to grab the front of my robe to pull me closer. “I promised myself I’d give you space.” He drags me down onto his lap, his hands fisting my lapels. “You’re turning me into a liar.”

I grin at our similarities and settle against his thighs, my palms finding his silk-covered pecs. “I don’t want space.”

“No, but you need it.” His lips brush mine, once, twice, the kisses commanding but oh, so gentle. “Yesterday, you wanted nothing to do with me.” He lowers his hands to seize my hips and guides me to move onto the cushion beside him.

“That’s not true. I’ve wanted more from you since the moment we met. It’s the complications that kept me away.”

“And have those secretive complications changed since you were mugged?” He stands and stalks to the kitchen to grab a drinking glass from a cupboard, then fills it with water from the fridge. “I think I can answer for you in saying they haven’t. The only difference from last night to today is a chemical imbalance brought on by shock.” He returns, holding the chilled water out to me. “Drink. You can’t live on alcohol alone.”

Goddamnit, he’s charming.

Big and broad and conniving. Yet sweet enough to cause cavities.

“Thank you.” I stare up at him as I take his offering.

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