Page 102 of Jordan

“And we’re not?” I bark.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he adds.

“Enough, Marco,” Elio warns.

He huffs out a breath and leans back in his chair.

An hour later, with no better plan than the one Elio came up with, I’m on my way home, frustrated beyond belief. This is getting out of control. I hate not being in control.

The thought of losing everything my father has built makes me angrier than I can express. I can’t even fucking think straight.

When I get home, I go up to my office and pour myself a drink. There’s a soft knock at the door. When I turn, I find Jordan standing there in nothing but an over-sized t-shirt. Her hardened nipples are protruding beneath her shirt, and it has my cock twitching.

She better have panties on.

The way her presence has my head clear and focusing on something other than my father and this mess is welcoming.

“Hi,” she says simply. As if we share this sort of greeting often.

“Hi?” I question.

She shrugs and steps in, looking around the office as if she’s never seen it before.

“How was your day?”

“Terrible. Yours?” I shoot back the alcohol and pour more.

Another shrug. She moves toward my desk, dragging her finger along the edge as she walks to the window.

“Boring.”

I narrow my eyes as I watch her take everything in.

She’s up to no good.

She has this strange look on her face. And the way she’s sauntering around—it isn’t normal. Not for her. Maybe for a prostitute or a thief. Not for Jordan Bramante. I do wonder how my little angel is appreciating her new last name, but I won’t ask. Not now when I’m trying to figure out what she’s up to.

“Did you come in here to chat, or did you need something?”

She raises a brow at me. “I wanted to see how my husband’s day was.”

“Oh—so you’re acknowledging our marriage now?”

“Did you not want me to?”

I take my shot and pour another, mulling it over.

She moves to me, stopping at my side and looking up at me. I stare down at her, taking her in.

She’s so beautiful. Sexy. Breathtaking.

“Can I make your day better?” she asks, her voice soft with a slight rasp.

I raise a brow in question, and instead of explaining, like I expect her to, she reaches for me, slipping two fingers behind the waistband of my pants.

I pick up my glass and take the shot, keeping my eyes on her. When I don’t respond, she tentatively reaches over with her other hand and works on getting my belt open. My dick is already thickening at the mere thought of her putting her pretty lips around it.

What a way to forget about the bullshit. And I didn’t have to ask or beg or tempt.