Page 109 of Mexico Can Choke On It
I storm to my door, hand on the handle, and exhale dramatically. Time to march across that hallway and remind Petra Brinkman who she’s dealing with.
I pull itopen—
And my brain sputters.
There she is, smirking at the threshold. All my filthiest fantasies in the flesh.
THUD!I shut the door so fast, it shakes the frame.
“Fucking hell.”
My hand hovers over the lock mechanism. I flip the deadbolt. Flip it back. Then flip it again.
Open it, you coward. Pretend you have some semblance of game left.
Or you could test your luck, jump off the balcony, and go hide in the jungle.
Stop being pathetic. You’re a Sterling. Sterlings don’t retreat.
Swinging the door wide, I allow my robe to slip open, revealing my bare chest. I lean against the frame, aiming for nonchalant, hoping it appears effortless.
“Good evening,” I say, dragging my gaze up her body. “I thought you’d lost your nerve.”
Her grin could power half of Mexico. “You’re the one who seems to have lost your shirt somewhere between opening and slamming the door.”
Her eyes drop—lingering on purpose.
I cross my arms. “I do not slam doors.”
“I’d call that a slam. Unless it was the sound of your composure hitting the floor.”
“I was… ensuring proper door functionality.”
“For an eternity and then some. What were you doing in there—fluffing the merchandise?”
“It’s a complex locking mechanism.”
She laughs—this rich, throaty sound that goes straight to my dick. “Right. Well, I’m here to collect on your little wager. You said I’dcome knockingtoday.“ She taps an imaginary watch. “But it’s 12:14 a.m., Moneybags. Welcome to tomorrow.”
“So you’re winning on a technicality?”
“I’m just showing you who’s edging who.”
My eyes narrow. “Why are you dressed up? Is there an occasion I’m unaware of?”
“I dress for the mood I want to inspire. Tonight’s vibe? Make the billionaire beg.”
She executes a ravenous spin. So torturous, my neural pathways scramble.
Jesus fucking Christ, that dress.
It’s the crimson halter from when we went shopping at Sebastian’s boutique—molten silk that hugs every dangerous curve like a map to temptation. The back dips scandalously low, revealing that tattoo Ican’t stop thinking about(and she knows it).
She peers over her shoulder with calculated innocence. “See anything that needs closer inspection?”
“Wait…” I force my thoughts to align. “You only showed up to gloat about timing?”
“Not exactly.” Her eyes rake down my torso, then lower to my hips. “I came to see if your boxer situation had resolved itself. There he is. Mr. Happy, waving his silk flag of surrender.”
