Page 42 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

“Despite all the lying, you feel like heaven in my arms,” he murmurs, squeezing my throat. “Do you want to come?”

I nod.

He tightens his hold. “Let me hear you say it, gorgeous.”

“Please,” I rasp, licking my lips. “Please make me come.”

“God, you’re a fucking masterpiece,” he says, thrusting his fingers into me, pumping deep and fast. I rock my hips to meet his pace. He hums in approval, petting my neck. “That’s right, wife, for better or worse, you’re mine. Your pleasure. Your lies. Your wicked mouth. This body.”

My breaths are coming in frantic pants. I can’t deny his ownership when my body writhes against him. It’s so glaringly obvious that I enjoy this.

“All. Fucking. Mine,” he growls in my ear.

I shudder in his hold, and he quickens the rolling of his thumb, knowing exactly how I like it.

Fingers curling against my G-spot, thumb pressing down hard, relentlessly attacking my clit, even as I try to escape the pleasure as it grows so intense I don’t think I can handle it.

He refuses to let me run away. He holds me right where he wants me, pushes me into the orgasm, palm clamping over my mouth as soon as it parts, stifling my cry.

“That scream is only for me,” he reminds me, carrying me through the crest of the pleasure and through the comedown. He withdraws his fingers and slips them into my mouth. I suck them clean without needing to be told. “Good girl.”

The praise he pours on me every time he gives me an orgasm rewires my brain, making me want to do more to earn those reverent words.

In our game of chess, Mace has my queen cornered, but I’m not ready to give up yet.

No matter how much I enjoy whatever this is between us, it doesn’t change what I have to do.

The lies sour on my tongue as his fingers slide out of my mouth.

“We should eat,” he says, gliding his hand on my throat down to my hip. He shifts us to the side, yanks out a chair, and drops into it, taking me along with him. I land in his lap with a soft huff.

“I’m not sitting in your lap,” I grumble, attempting to get up.

He tsks and both hands grasp my hips. “Keep writhing in my lap, and I’ll fuck you so hard Kyle will have to send everyone home.”

My body flushes, and despite the allure of that threat, I keep my senses about me and go still.

“Good choice,” he says. Shifting me to one leg, he reaches for the food. “I love Indian.”

A coincidence. “There’s rogan josh and biryani. I got aloo and garlic naan because I wasn’t sure which you preferred.”

He smooths his thumb over my hip. “You ordered this for me?” He’s far too pleased.

I shake my head. “I ordered it for us and figured feeding you was the least I could do.”

“I’ll take it,” he says, portioning out some rogan josh for himself. “How’s your day going so far?”

“The horrors persist, as do I.”

He smirks, starts to say something, but his door snaps open, knob smacking against the drywall protector with a loud crack. I jump and Mace’s hands hold me in place.

When did humanity bleed out of Darius Astor’s eyes?

He looks strikingly similar to his son, especially in a suit, but there’s a soullessness about him that has my baser instincts screaming.

Today, his face is red, a vein pulsing in his temple and the air around him shimmering with violence. “I need you.”

“Dad,” Mace says with all the patience of a parent talking to a toddler. “I’m eating.”

“You can do that later. My office. Now.” Darius leaves without even saying hi to me or apologizing for barging in on lunch.

“He’s so nice.”

Mace shakes his head. “He’s an asshole on the best of days.” Longingly looking at the food, he frowns and pushes his bowl away. “Right, well, enjoy lunch.” He begins to stand, forcing me to my feet alongside him.

I set my dish down and turn. “Wait, you’re not going to finish?”

“You don’t want to see him really mad,” Mace says, standing and buttoning his blazer. “Sorry I can’t stick around.” He moves in for a quick kiss, slipping his tongue against mine for all of three seconds, then pulls back.

He heads out of the office, off to deal with whatever made his Dad angry.

I expect him to be back at some point while I’m eating, but he never returns, and the soft part of my heart feels for him missing out on lunch.

After asking Kyle for help with finding foil, I cover everything and place it in the mini fridge behind his desk.

He’s been gone for a while now, and I contemplate sitting down and seeing what more I can do on his computer, but as soon as I step toward it, he comes in. His blazer is messed up, the shirt collar underneath standing up—not how it’s supposed to be.

“Hi,” I say lamely, tucking my hands behind my back, as if to hide the evidence of cookie crumbs.

“Did you eat? ”

Thank fuck he didn’t come in a few minutes later to catch me sitting at his desk. “I did. It was amazing.”

He nods. “Do you need anything before you go back to work?”

My eyebrows pinch together. Only evidence to put you away. “Uh, no, I’m okay.” I take in the state of his suit. “Are you?”

Mace looks at himself, huffs in frustration, and adjusts the suit jacket but misses the collar of his shirt underneath.

Curiosity has me approaching. When he stiffens as I near, I tip my head, surprised by that reaction.

The hyper awareness of my movements reminds me of our wedding night when he and Crue got into it.

“You don’t look okay, Mace.” I stop before him.

He peers at me, dark blue eyes guarded. That’s unusual too.

I reach toward him, and he pulls away before pausing, taking a deep breath, and relaxing. My hand stopped moving the moment he flinched. Face scrunched, I search for any indication that will tell me what’s going on, but he’s wearing that same mask of forced indifference I’ve seen Rose don.

His fucking dad. I don’t think I’ve ever hated a human more than I hate Darius.

“May I?” I ask, gaze skipping to my hands.

The muscle in his jaw ripples, but he nods.

Interesting. I reach for his collar, rising onto my toes due to the height difference, and grasp either edge, smoothing the material down and tucking it back inside the blazer before lifting my gaze to meet his.

Haunted is the only way to describe what I find in the depths of his irises.

The shadows aren’t hiding anymore. I stare into the abyss of a darkness I don’t fully understand .

Lingering with my hands on his shoulders, I search his face. “Can I ask what happened?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice gruff and strained.

I want to argue that obviously he’s not .

The look on his face tells me that’s a bad idea.

I run my gaze over his features again, dying to know what Darius did that set him off, but eventually, relent and pull my hands away.

Before I can drop to my heels, he catches my wrists in a firm but gentle hold that confuses me even more.

“I’m not mad at you.”

My nose wrinkles. “I know that.”

“Good.” He releases me and heads to his desk, dropping into his seat and burying himself in his work.

I’ve dealt with my fair share of disassociation and recognize that he needs space. I gather my things, fighting the urge to ask a hundred questions, and glance at him. “I’ll see you at home.”

Mace glances at me and nods. A raging tempest of curiosity swirls inside of me. Between the texts with Malik, the way his dad stormed in, and how Mace returned, there’s something there. I have to figure out what it is.