Page 26 of Devil's Azalea

My heart starts hammering, thudding with every rough pass of his fingertips over my lips and the unspoken knowledge dancing behind his stare.

He knows. How the hell does he know?

He pulls back just long enough to grab a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipes his fingers clean. Then, with a tenderness that shouldn’t belong to a man like him, he dabs the cloth over my lips too.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The rhythm is dizzying. Strangely lulling.

My eyes flutter shut.

“Rafael, I–” I gasp as he leans down and brushes his lips against mine.

My lips tremble, parting for him, and he sinks in, kissing me with a low, tortured groan that I swallow.

The hand that’s been resting casually on my breast all this time—God, how did I forget it was there?—slides higher. Up, up, until it wraps around my throat—not threatening, but possessive—as he tilts my head just so, deepening the kiss.

His tongue caresses mine, dueling and tangling in a sensuous dance that sends shudders through me. Then he moves to the roof of my mouth, the edges of my teeth—which I never realized was an erogenous zone until this moment—the tender inner lining of my cheeks. No part of me is left unclaimed by his masterful assault.

By the time he’s done, I’m melting. Boneless. Brain empty.

He releases my throat, and that hand slowly trails downwards, caressing my skin as it goes, until it plunges seductively into my cleavage. My moan escapes before I can catch it, low and needy as the warm. The callused weight of his palm covers my tit, my nipples puckering instantly beneath his heated grip.

“Fuck, you need to keep quiet, baby,” he murmurs into my lips.

I know. But how can I when?—

Knock knock.

A sharp sound pierces the charged atmosphere.

I jolt, instinctively pressing closer to him. My heart is thundering, panic spiking so fast I can barely breathe.

Oh shit, shit, shit.

Did they just knock onourdoor?

Have we been found?

But then the knock sounds again, and I realize with a rush of relief, it’s not the closet. It’s coming from the main office door. We have not been found. We’re still safe.

“What do we do about his body?” one of Jason’s men asks, nodding to the dead waiter as he glances at the door.

Shit. Someone justdiedbecause of me, and what am I doing?

Making out with mynemesis!

Fucking Rafael.

I slap at his wrist with sudden vehemence. He responds with a frustrated huff but slowly withdraws his hand from my tit, and I fight the urge to whimper at the loss, disgusted by my own weakness.Focus, Emilia! Focus, focus, focus!

“Nothing. It’s probably our friend at the door. Go check it out,” Jason says, circling his desk to sink into his high-backed leather chair like he’s not sitting in the same room as a bleeding corpse. “And if it’s not… well, you know what to do.”

My God, I knew he was corrupt—you don’t get involved with the Nightshades without being dirty to the core—but Ididn’t expect this level of depravity. Politicians are usually slimy, sure. They’ll kiss babies and stab backs in the same breath just to claw their way to power. But this man takes the cake. He’s not even a wolf in sheep’s clothing—just a straight-up thug in a tailored suit.

Jason’s man opens the office door, and it must be who they’re expecting because he steps back without a word, closing the door behind the newcomer.

The man walks in like he owns the room. Crisp, expensive-looking suit. Slicked-back hair. But something about him still screams cheap—maybe it’s the overconfidence, or the lack of soul in his eyes. His features are so distinctly Slavic that I’ve pegged him as Russian before Jason even opens his mouth.