Page 87 of Lethal Torture
I don’t even know if he still wants this contract—or, more importantly, what I’ll do if he doesn’t.
The doors open, and I bolt like they’re starting gates at the races. It’s only when I’m standing in my corridor that I realize Luke hasn’t followed me.
I turn to find him studying me, his expression impossible to read.
“You’re coming in, right?” I mean it to sound careless. I’m all too conscious that it really doesn’t.
“Not tonight.” He glances at his phone. “Or rather, not this morning.” He yawns widely, not bothering to cover his mouth. “I’m going to Sophie’s House to check on the team. Then I’m going home. Where I plan to have a shower, a very large Scotch, and at least eight hours of sleep.”
I stare at him in astonishment.
That’s it?No lecture about secrets? No threat to quit? No hard lines or ultimatums?
No bedroom marathon?
His lips twist into a dark smile that does dangerous things to my insides. “And of course, it goes without saying that if you ever pull another stunt like tonight, I’ll put a fucking bullet through you myself. Clear enough?”
I bite my lip on a slightly hysterical urge to laugh. “Crystal.”
“Good.” He touches my cheek, a fleeting caress that nonetheless makes every part of me melt. “Then we’ll talk tomorrow.”
The elevator doors close, and he’s gone.
As it turns out,we’re both so busy following the Avonmouth rescue that whatever discussion we might have had gets postponed, and for several days I have little more than a cursory few moments with Luke. Long enough to drive me a little crazy. And leave me more than a little nervous.
There are almost fifty women to debrief and settle into Sophie’s House, as well as wounded members of my own team who need care. Niamh and her team are, thankfully, all safe and recovering in hospital. Beyond the fallout from Avonmouth, my clubs are hectic in the lead-up to Christmas and our Winter Ball.
I’m grateful for the frenzied pace, not least because every time my world slows down, all I can see, or feel, is Luke’s naked body hard up against my own.
It was just sex, for Chrissakes.
Except it was anything butjustsex, and I know it.
For me, of all people, sex should be fucking straightforward.
But it isn’t. It’s the least straightforward thing I’ve ever considered.
Particularly because every time Istartconsidering it, all I can think about is how insanely good it was. Andinsaneis the only way to describe the almost animal need that had me tearing at Luke in that container. I can’t so much as think of that complete loss of control without blushing.
Actually fuckingblushing,like some idiotic schoolgirl. I’ve caught myself in the mirror more than once and been damned grateful nobody was around to witness it, because if they had, and guessed at the reason, my ice queen reputation would have been shot to hell.
I’ve never had sex like that before.
Raw. Utterly instinctive. No games, no underlying motive, and not a whip or costume in sight.
But if I’m honest, what do I have to compare it to?
I walk restlessly across the Mayfair penthouse. It’s just after breakfast on a wintry Wednesday morning, and I’ve already done an extremely hard workout and two hours’ work. I have a midmorning meeting scheduled with the home secretary, and one with Luke after that. The truth is that I’m aching to see him as much as I’m dreading it. The fact that it took three outfit changes before I finally settled on a fitted black dress, with my trademark slit up the side and Louboutin heels, is a good indication of my inner turmoil. I’m horribly aware that I have no idea how to play this one. And that my customary detachment is long fucking gone.
The truth is that I’ve never really had a genuine relationship at all.
And by genuine, I mean one where the decision to sleep together wasn’t in some way business based. Either mutually beneficial business interests, selfish business interests, or—when I was still young and stupid—being naive enough to be used by others fortheirselfish business interests.
Those last experiences taught me that whether I’m stuck in a cage or ruling an empire from a penthouse office, my relationships will always be defined by the struggle for power, money, or both. Whatever shred of belief in the fairytale of romance, family, and children might have survived the corruption of my childhood was lost in the early days of building my business.
I’m not entirely a cynic. I still hold a certain fondness for the fairy tale—when it comes to other people living it.
But nor am I a hypocrite. And I have zero ability to lie to myself.
