Page 55 of SINS & Riley
Terribly. Catastrophically. Wrong.
The day started innocently enough.
Cookies with the kids.
A little gentle prodding to see if they’d spill about Zver without his mask.
Which, of course, went nowhere.
Katya gave me a mashup of Flynn Rider’s grin, Gaston’s chest, and a tattoo that magically changes position all the time.
She topped it off with a dreamy sigh. “I love bad boys.”
Apparently, she and I both need therapy.
Misha swore he’d seen Zver without the mask. His version leaned more fairy-tale prince, riding merrily across castle grounds on a horse. Or a unicorn.
Or a Harley.
But then he offered me a spoonful of cannoli dip, and I nearly puked on the poor kid’s head.
Which is how I’ve landed here, staring down a man for whom murder is muscle memory.
The nausea is only getting worse, and not knowing if a living piece of Dante D’Angelo is planting his pitchfork inside me is enough to push anyone past rational thought.
Especially with tomorrow looming—my actual, no-shit am-I-about-to-be-a-mother results with the doctor.
So before I defy both Zver and Dominic—again—I need to know if the man is even still breathing.
Because the swelling in my feet…
The way my boobs feel like they’ve been strapped to a helium tank…
And I am freaking the fuck out.
So, is it reckless to storm Zver’s secret-not-so-secret lair like this?
Absolutely.
Am I half using it as an excuse to catch him without the mask?
You bet your ass I am.
What I did not expect…not by any stretch of the imagination…
Was him.
Three-piece suit.
Shirt undone.
An erection stretching the length of the Magnificent Mile.
He opens his desk, pulls out a ruler, and snaps it against his palm.
The crack ricochets through me, sharp and sudden, sending my pulse spiking too fast, too high. My knees threaten to buckle, and I clutch the edge of his desk just to stay upright.
It’s my living, breathing fantasy.
