Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Morning, Ghost,” she says, and there’s a playful shade in Ghost that prickles the back of my neck. She drops her bag on the desk, slides into the chair beside mine. “Ready to make some billionaires cry?”
I settle back in my chair, her knee brushing mine, and say, “Let’s do it.”
Her mouth tips like she’s hiding a secret. “Thought you’d say that.”
We get to work. I throw Valentino and Gray on the left monitor—stills Render ripped from rooftop footage, time stamps burned in the corners. On the center screen, I’ve spelled out a clean timeline: five equal crypto payouts on Arby’s death night. Shell accounts tied to Gracewood’s side ventures. The new formula launch meant to wash the brand. On the right, Ozzy’s scrape of Valentino’s public calendar: 7:30 a.m. Marina Club – Breakfast with Gray and a noon block labeled Gracewood – Compliance Prep.
“Breakfast meeting in two hours,” I say. “Marina Club does private rooms. If we can plant ears in the ceiling grid…”
“Or we sit at the next table and pretend to be a couple breaking up quietly,” she says, too fast, eyes flicking to the mask and away. “I mean, if you’d take the mask off.”
I shake my head. “We’ll scout. No contact.”
We slide into a rhythm. She scans sponsorship contracts for breach language, and I drill into HOLO-BURST’s vendor map and find three LLCs with the same Wyoming address. Every once in a while I spot her studying me, and I chalk it up to the way we left things unsaid between us.
I mean, I got her off, and then it’s like we’re right back to business. Should I bring it up? No, I don’t think I should.
On mute, my phone buzzes with team texts.
Ozzy: Knight’s Surge Reserve is basically sugar jet fuel. Also my tongue is blue.
Knight: Rooftop bartender says Valentino stiffed tip. Classic.
Render: I’ve got a line on Gracewood’s travel desk. Gray loves a 6 a.m. tee time; Pilates on Thursdays. Human, not monster.
Gage drops two more stills of Valentino—one with a phone to his ear, one mid-laugh that makes my fists ache.
Juno leans back, head tipped against the chair, watching me type. “How many people are in your little ghost army? Or are there more I haven’t met yet?” she asks, light, like she’s asking how many playlists I’ve made for coding.
“You’ve met all of them,” I say.
“How much do they know?” Her tone is careful. “About me. About this.”
“They know what they need to know,” I answer. I’m lying through my teeth. Juno knows my friends. Very well.
She considers me for a long beat, eyes dark. “You always this…controlled?”
“Only when chaos stands in front of me,” I say, and watch heat bloom along her cheekbones.
Silence pools. She twists a pen between her fingers, then sets it down and shifts her chair closer, knees touching mine fully now. The mask turns the world into tunnel vision. All I see is her mouth.
“Hoover,” she says, barely above a whisper, “touch me.”
Every nerve in my body draws taut.
She doesn’t look away. “Kiss me. Anything. I’m done pretending I’m not…here.”
I should say no. I should remind her we’re working, that lines exist for reasons, that masks protect because they hide. Instead I reach—slow, sure—and take her face in my hands. Latex squeaks against her skin. Her lashes flutter; her breath stutters once. I tilt the mask, angle it so the lower rim grazes her cheek and the edge of her mouth, a hushed drag of cold rubber over warm skin. My thumb finds the spot beneath her ear, presses gently; she shivers like I flipped a switch.
“Closer,” she breathes.
I slide a gloved hand down her throat, feel her pulse hammer against my thumb, then lower, finding the notch of her collarbone. She tips her chin, exposing the line of her neck, trusting and wild. I press the mask’s useless mouth to the corner of her lips—a phantom kiss—and she makes a sound that unspools me.
“Take it off,” she whispers, eyes blown. “Just for a second.”
It’s like there’s a knife between my ribs. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” No accusation… just curiosity. But her fingers are on the edge of the hood now, testing. “I want to see you.”
I catch her wrist, gentle but unyielding. “Not yet.”
A flicker crosses her face—disappointment, then that new, feline calm. She inhales, gathers herself, nods. “Okay,” she says, and the word is velvet over steel. “Then kiss me like this.”
I do. Mask angled, thumb on her jaw, the barest press of rubber and heat and breath until we’re both shaking with what we’re not doing. When I pull back, it’s an act of mercy and self-preservation in equal measure. She swallows, licks her lower lip like she’s trying to keep the feeling.
I tug her onto my lap, wanting to watch her get off again. I keep both hands planted on her hips, and grind her against my hardening cock. “Keep your head down, and ride me through my jeans. Make yourself come for me. I want to watch you get off.”