Page 73 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Goddamn it,” I growl.
I lean my face against my forearm on the shower wall, my jaw locked with the sort of guilt that never washes off.
I chose a million-dollar ruby to match the shade of her lips. Of course she refused to wear the damn ring.
What the hell was I thinking? Petra hates flashy wealth. I should’ve known she’d see it as an attempt to dress her up like some Sterling-approved showpiece. Or worse—she was afraid of the responsibility, worried she’d lose something so valuable.
Regardless, I backed her into a corner with my expectations. And once again, she defied them.
Her name pulses through me with each punishing stroke.Petra. Petra. Petra.
I can almost feel her in here with me—pressed between my overheated body and the cool marble wall, water plastering that wild black hair to her skin, red lips parted on gasps bouncing off the tiles.One of my hands would be in her strands, angling her head back to expose the pale column of her throat. The other gripping her hip as my fingers dug in hard enough to leave marks. I’d say her name with every thrust then demand she say mine in return.
“Say it, Pip. Say my name.”
“Make me, Moneybags,” she’d say, gasping and fighting her growing arousal.
My muscles coil tight as I near release. I imagine those plump, red, dick-sucking lips. God, I crave that mouth—around me, on me,owningme. I want to be fucking her mouth with the kind of hedonistic pleasure I’ve spent my entire life denying. And when her rebellious hazel eyes stare up at me through dark lashes, it’s game over.
My orgasm slams through me—no warning this time. Justdetonation.
Rope after rope of come sprays against imported marble before being washed away by the water, evidence of my weakness disappearing down the drain.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I gasp, chest heaving like I’ve run a marathon, my cock still pulsing in my grip.
I have no idea how many more releases I’ll need today. Five? Ten? Before I finish drying off?
Because this?
It’s the only choice I have.
Ihaveto keep my distance.
***
Ihaven’tseenPetraall day. Not that I’ve been looking for her.
Okay, fine. I have.
The tearoom. The gardens. The waiting area outside the massage cabana. I engineered three unnecessary trips past her suite, lingered in hallways with no purpose, and subjected myself to a fifteen-minute conversation with Hana Choi about the “transformative power of jade face rollers”—all in hopes she’d seen Petra earlier.
Still no sign of her.
Now I’m seated with Gavin for our lunch meeting at Casa Cashmere’s poolside outdoor pavilion, barely tasting the exquisite meal in front of me because I’m busy monitoring the perimeter like a Secret Service agent watching for threats. Or in this case, a 5’9” woman with a smart mouth and black eyeliner.
The pavilion exudes tropical luxury. A thatched palapa roof soars overhead, supported by bamboo columns wrapped in fairy lights. The teak floor shines. White curtains flutter, showcasing twin infinity pools that disappear into the Pacific. The jungle provides a lush, private setting.
Despite the midday Mexican heat, we’re both in suits. I was raised that Sterling men don’t “dress down,” even when the humidity makes it feel like we’re wearing portable saunas. My navy Tom Ford clings to my back, while Gavin’s charcoal Armani stays impeccable. The man could walk through a hurricane and be runway ready.
Hidden fans and a top-notch cooling system keep the air pleasant and scented with plumeria. Three motionless servers in matching white uniforms blend into the décor so well, they’re barely visible. One materializes to refill my water glass the instant I glance at it, then swiftly disappears.
“What do you think about the stockholders’ first quarter projections?” Gavin asks.
“What?”
“I asked what you think.” His tone’s tight. Buttoned. “Which you would know if you’d listened to a single word I’ve said since we sat down.”
“I apologize,” I say, straightening my already straight tie. “I’ve been… distracted.”
