Page 85 of The Contract

I arch a brow.

Are these Dante’s?

I roll the waistband several times, and miraculously, no duct tape needed. They actually stay put.

With time to kill and drawers to snoop, I tug open another.

Neatly folded socks.

Boring. Next.

The next drawer drops my jaw straight to the center of the fucking earth.

Stacks of cash stare back at me. Thick bundles of crisp hundreds piled so high my fingers twitch with the urge to touch—to fan through every pristine bill like pages of a really dirty book.

More money than I’ll ever see in a lifetime.

Or, knowing my luck, several lifetimes.

Before I can so much as blink, the door flies open, slamming into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed artwork.

Dante fills the doorway, a towering silhouette of dark fury and enough raw, sexual intensity I might actually spontaneously combust.

Instead, I stand there, frozen. Elbow-deep in his secret stash o’ cash, bunny ears askew, as his silk boxers slide perilously toward my knees.

His gaze devours me slowly, deliberately, lingering on every inch of me as if I actually am in tassels and a g-string.

My skin ignites beneath the scorch of his stare.

I straighten my bunny ears defiantly.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Pom?”

“Don’t people knock around here?” I fire back instantly, trying not to show the adrenaline spike pounding through my veins.

“Don’t you mean, ‘Don’t people knock, Your Grace?’” His voice is deceptively soft. Dangerously so.

Heat blooms through my belly. Before I can snap back another snarky retort, he commands sharply, “Hands and knees, Riley.”

“What?”

His voice drops to a dark, dangerous rumble. “Either you’re leaving, or you’re on the bed. Now, Pom.”

I could leave.

As easily as that.

Snatch my trench, wrap myself up, and get the hell out of Satan’s lair. Because doing this—whatever reckless insanity this is—is wrong.

So, very, very wrong.

With Dante, right and wrong dissolves like mist beneath the sun. There’s only heat.

Want.

Hunger.

Desire.

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