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He moves his mouth to my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. I gasp, letting my head fall back to give him better access. I find the hem of his shirt with my fingers, slipping underneath to feel the warm skin of his back.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmurs against my throat, even as he slides his hands higher under my sweater.

“Probably not.” I make no move to stop him.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his pupils so dilated his eyes look almost black. “This is a terrible idea.”

“I know.” I pull him back to me, reclaiming his mouth.

He expertly works at the button and zipper of my pants, pausing only to search my eyes one last time for hesitation. Finding none, he tugs them down over my hips as I lift myself slightly to help. The cool air hits my bare legs, raising goosebumps that his rough hands immediately smooth away.

“Last chance to walk away,” he breathes against my ear.

I answer by pulling his shirt over his head to reveal the tattoo that spans his left shoulder—intricate lines I can’t quite discern in the dim light. A scar cuts across his ribs, older and faded—evidence of a life I know nothing about.

“You don’t want to get mixed up with me,” he warns, even as he traces the edge of my underwear. “I’m not the good guy here.”

“I’m not looking for a good guy.” The words surprise me with their honesty.

Something like a growl escapes him as he crashes his mouth back to mine. His kisses are nothing like Damiano’s careful exploration.

Flint devours, takes, demands .

And I match him, bite for bite, digging crescents into his shoulders with my nails.

The desk rattles beneath us as he presses forward. Papers scatter to the floor, followed by something that shatters – a mug, maybe. Neither of us stops to check.

This isn’t just heated kisses that we can laugh off tomorrow. This is deliberate. Reckless. Exactly what I need to feel something beyond the numbness that’s been my constant companion.

He slips his hands beneath me, lifting me against him as he carries me from the desk to the small couch against the wall. The leather is cold against my back as he lowers me, his weight following.

His body covers mine completely, solid and warm. The leather couch creaks beneath us as he settles between my thighs, one hand braced beside my head, the other tracing a path down my side to my hip.

“This what you came here for?” He digs his fingers into my flesh, just shy of painful.

I should be offended by the question, but there’s something raw in his expression that stops me—vulnerability beneath the anger. I reach up to touch his face, and he flinches slightly before allowing it.

“No,” I whisper, “but I’m not sorry.”

Something flashes in his eyes—relief, maybe—before he captures my mouth again. The kiss is slower this time, deeper, as if we’ve moved past the initial fury into something more dangerous .

He slips his hand between us, finding the edge of my underwear again, and I arch against him, wordlessly urging him on. The first touch of his fingers makes me gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound, watching my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. But I don’t.

“Flint,” I breathe, not sure if I’m asking for more or for mercy.

He seems to understand either way; his movements becoming more deliberate as he slides his finger into my pussy without warning.

I let my head fall back, a shuddering breath escaping me. His eyes never leave my face, tracking every reaction like he’s memorizing them. Like he’s storing away my vulnerabilities for later.

“Look at me,” he demands, so low I barely hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.

I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze as his thumb finds my clit, circling with deliberate pressure. He adds a second finger, spreading me wider.

I can’t look away from him. His eyes hold me captive as effectively as his body pressing me into the couch. There’s something almost punishing in his touch, like he’s trying to prove something to both of us.

“This what you want?” He crooks his fingers inside me in a way that makes my breath catch.

He adds a third finger, and it’s almost too much.

The stretch burns, delicious and sharp. My hips rise to meet his hand of their own accord. I don’t answer his question with words—I don’t need to. My body’s response is answer enough as I clench around his fingers.

His mouth curves into something not quite a smile. “Thought so.”

A knock at the door breaks us apart. Flint steps back, running a hand through his now completely disheveled hair as I scramble to put my clothes back on.

“Boss?” It’s the blue-haired bartender cracking the door and peeking in. “Sorry to interrupt, but Viktor Bastian just walked in. Thought you should know.”

The heat in Flint’s eyes instantly turns to alarm. “Keep him at the bar. Tell him I’m doing inventory.”

“Got it.”

Flint turns back to me right as I’m pulling my pants over my hips. “You need to leave. Now. Through the back.”

I button my pants and try to regain reason, trying to process the rapid shift. “Why is he here?”

“Could be coincidence. Could be he followed you.” Flint straightens his shirt. “Either way, you can’t be seen.”

He leads me to another door at the back of the office, opening it to reveal a narrow hallway.

“Follow this to the end. It’ll take you out behind the building. Go straight home, no detours. ”

“Why do I need to sneak out? We could just say we’re talking. There’s nothing suspicious about that.”

His expression turns serious. “Viktor’s not an idiot. He’ll see you here, see me talking to you in private, and wonder why the Waters heiress is having secret meetings with the bartender right when he’s investigating his brother’s disappearance.”

“So?”

“So he’s looking for any reason to connect the dots. We can’t give him one.” His expression softens slightly. “Go home, Briar. Please.”

It’s the “please” that does it. That and hearing my name from him without any edge or sarcasm.

I nod, feeling awkward about what just happened between us. Heat rises to my cheeks as I realize I’ve gone from Damiano’s arms to Flint’s in less than twenty-four hours. What kind of person does that make me?

“Go,” he says, more urgently. “I’ll handle Viktor.”