Page 139 of The Contract

I linger. Teeth punishing my lip. Then sanity fails—spectacularly—and I’m two seconds from charging the guards in a blaze of drunken glory. Likely straight into a bullet.

“Long dark hair. Pink dress. Innocence necklace. Find her!”

Shit.

I flatten against the wall as the massive guard below corrals the others. Finally, Lady Luck cuts me some slack—the guards spin on their heels and barrel away in the opposite direction.

Then I’m moving.

Up the stairs.

Down the hall.

Toward two foreboding double doors I have absolutely no business approaching.

Any fucking second now would be a perfect time to turn around.

But my feet clearly missed the memo.

When I reach the doors, both hands curl around the cold handles. Obviously, rational thought has taken a back seat to breaking and entering.

Mustering every drop of booze-soaked courage, I shove both doors open in one clumsy, graceless push—because elegance is so fucking overrated.

My foot catches, balance abandoning me entirely, and suddenly I’m stumbling headfirst into a room I have no goddamn business entering.

An office.

And him.

Dante D’Angelo. Sprawled on rich leather like the king of all he surveys, every line of his body loose and languid, as if nothing in this fucked-up world could faze him.

Not even me.

His fingers, draped carelessly over the armrest, twitch, just once, before going utterly still.

Controlled. Measured. Dangerous.

Then I see her.

Kneeling obediently between his spread thighs, palms resting possessively on his knees. His belt already undone. Her mouth—oh, for the love of God—her mouth is dragging his zipper down, teeth scraping metal like she’s done this a thousand times.

Then, steel-blue eyes land directly on mine.

Something dark flickers behind them—sharp, knowing, amused.

I stare, taking it all in.

Her mouth. Her lips.

Grazing his pants.

His dick.

And I’m no expert, but his already impressive size seems to be doubling like a goddamn inflatable.

Heat floods my cheeks, impossible to hide.

Just like the sharp pucker of my nipples—something he’s now shamelessly locked onto.

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