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)
“Ahh,” she moans as she thrusts herself against me.
I hate all the clothing between us, but this isn’t about that right now. This is about making her forget. About making her happy. And, I’m being a bit selfish… I like getting her to come.
She rides my lap, her hands sitting atop my shoulders. She closes her eyes, leans her head back, her black hair tumbling down her back in waves.
I imagine fucking her like this. Her riding my cock as she comes all over it. Fuck, I need to get inside her. “Use me,” I tell her. “Ride me.”
She speeds up, her hips bucking as she rides me. Sure, I’d love to be doing this for real. No clothing. My cock in her cunt, but I’ll take what I can get. For now.
She rocks against me, and then her hold on me tightens. She wraps her arms around my neck, her mouth close to my ear. “I’m coming,” she whispers a second before her orgasm slams completely through her.
I watch as she rides out the last tremors of her release, and relish that I’m the man making her feel this way.
Even though she doesn’t know it’s me. That thought deflates me, and as her breathing returns to normal, I watch her, wishing I could tell her who I really am.
What would she think? I picture her slapping me. Good thing she doesn’t know.
Her aftershocks of her orgasm diminish and she smiles up at me, lifting off my lap. “We should go ruin breakfast,” she says, voice husky.
I make myself breathe. “We should.”
She lingers a second, searching the blank eyes of Ghostface like the answer is hiding behind them. Then she pivots to the monitors again, all business. The whiplash is dizzying, but the control is intoxicating. Something is up with her and I don’t know if it’s that she’s finally surrendered to this strange gravity between us—or that she’s holding some card I can’t see.
I bank the question. We don’t have time to peel back layers.
I pull up the Marina Club’s floor plan and mark likely rooms. “We can ghost a reservation. Front desk will think she’s seating you for a client pitch.” I hand Juno a tiny bone-conduction earpiece. “Tap once to transmit, twice to mute. If I say out, you stand and walk—don’t argue.”
She tucks the earpiece behind her ear, fingers brushing my gloved knuckles like it’s an accident and absolutely not. “Your friends,” she says casually, “are you sure they’re cool with this?”
“Absolutely.” I holster the laptop, making sure my mask is set in place. Before we go, she catches my sleeve.
“Last question,” she says. “How much will you tell them about this next step?”
“Enough to keep you alive,” I say, and that’s the only answer I trust.
She studies me, like she’s comparing my voice to something she’s heard somewhere else. For a beat I think she’ll push. Instead she rises on her toes and presses a quick, fierce kiss to the blank white mouth of Ghostface.
“Let’s go, Ghost,” she murmurs. “We’ve got men in suits to haunt.”
We tail breakfast from a block away, making ourselves invisible with posture and silence. Render gets her seated in the Marina Club’s annex behind a silk screen. Render floats outside with a telephoto, making sure he never gets seen by Juno. Ozzy and I hide in the HVAC air ducts. It’s hot and stuffy, but we make do so nobody sees us in our ridiculous masks. Knight, in the Hayes mask, positions himself in a service corridor between pantry and private rooms. We can’t see Valentino and Gray, but our mics in the HVAC carry their words like confessed sins.
“…bundle the transfers… Q2 runway… creators who won’t comply…”
Juno’s breath hitches at the word creators. I tense, and tell her to breathe. She does.
When Gray mentions “the cemetery mess” and Valentino replies, “Not ours, not my problem,” I feel Juno exhale and I press down. She exhales, long and controlled. She is changing in front of me—still fire, but banked and aimed. I don’t know if I’m watching her harden or finally learn how to carry the heat.
After, in the alley behind the club, we debrief in low voices while the team filters updates across comms. Gage snagged a copy of the receipt—Gray’s membership ID, Valentino’s last name and an email domain we haven’t seen. Render got faces. Knight picked up chatter about a “compliance packet” going to a third party on Monday.
“Third party,” Juno repeats. “Who?”
“Gracewood legal or a fixer,” I say. “Either way, a weak seam. We pull there.”
She steps close—public street, private electricity—and for a second I think she’s going to kiss the mask again in broad daylight. Instead she reaches up, thumb grazing the edge of the hood, and smiles a smile that is both invitation and dare.