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ADRIAN

A ll it would take was a few snaps of a cellphone camera and our faces would be front-page news. The latest scandal behind the Prescott name. Wife or Widowmaker in bold print next to Beloved Socialite Missing . Because everyone was beloved when they were missing. Even more so when they were dead.

I still couldn’t be fucked. Not when my cock was aching to remember what it felt like to be inside her. To feel her walls closing around me. Strangling me. Holding me there, even as the rest of her tried to push me away.

Kind of like right now. Marisela’s fists were twisted in my shirt.

Her nipples pebbled beneath the thin fabric of her dress—too thin for how cold it was outside—at the same time she was lifting a knee and digging it into my thigh.

Struggling between tugging me closer and prying me off her, before finally settling on the latter when the heel of her stiletto drove itself against my shin.

Digging in and twisting along the thinnest part of the tibia.

I stumbled back a step. Far enough to watch her chest heave but not so far that I couldn’t pull her towards me again. If I wanted to.

I did want to. She just wasn’t ready for that yet. She wasn’t ready to admit the fact that she wasn’t angry with me. She was relieved. She was… grateful.

I was a much better husband than Tate ever was. I’d taken out the trash and she didn’t even have to ask me twice.

Marisela lifted an arm, swiping over her smeared lipstick with the backside of her hand, while I adjusted my pants and watched her. Specifically, how her gaze dropped to follow my movements, no matter how much she tried to keep them focused on my face.

“If you didn’t want me to fuck you…” I trailed my eyes over the length of her body, from heeled toe to pursed lips. “…then why did you follow me out here, little lamb?”

“I didn’t follow you. I left.”

“Same difference.” I shrugged. “You came here looking to get my attention. Now you have it.”

“I came here to have a drink,” she threw back.

“My drink. My cigar.” I reached out a hand and pressed it over her clit. Over her clothes with just enough pressure to have her squirming. Marisela might have given up on the prospect of sex, of enjoying it, but her body hadn’t. “My pussy.”

She steeled her spine. I could feel her clenching as she willed herself not to move. “Pretty sure it’s mine, unless there’s something you want to tell me?” she countered, and I grinned.

“There is so much I want to tell you, show you, do to you… but is there something you want to tell me first?”

“Nope,” she replied, popping her lips. “Nothing that comes to mind.”

I rested a palm on the wall beside her head, using my free hand to brush the loose strands of hair from her face. It didn’t feel the same. Not nearly as soft and wavy. But much like my little lamb’s affections, her natural curls would grow back soon.

“You have a new personal assistant. Pretty little thing, from what I hear…” I kept my focus on the way my fingers twirled around her hair, transfixed by the memory of dark locks sprawled out on bright-white bedsheets, until the grinding of teeth had me shifting my eyes to the right.

“Keeping tabs on me? Or is it her?” Marisela was seething.

“Her who?”

“Emily?”

“I have absolutely no interest in Emily. Or any other woman who isn’t you, if that’s what you’re worried about, Marisela.

” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even a partial truth.

I wasn’t interested in the girl. I was interested in Dr. Michaels’s interest in her.

In what he was willing to do for me to get to her.

The same way a fisherman was interested in the worm on his hook .

I didn’t care about guppies when I had a much bigger catch in mind.

Marisela slapped my arm aside, and for a moment, I thought she was going to slap me too.

Instead, she gestured for me to get on my knees.

Grabbing on to the back of my head until my face was buried in her bare cunt.

Nothing separating my mouth from her pussy while the hem of her dress billowed around us like a white flag signaling her surrender.

Because she was the only one fighting us.

She was the only thing keeping me from where I really wanted to be. Lost between her thighs.

I took a long breath and groaned.

It was normal for nostalgia to sweeten the memory of something.

Increasing blood flow to certain regions of the body and simulating a time when you felt your best, altering your brain chemistry so that how it’d had been could never compare to how it actually was. The concept better than the reality.

This wasn’t that. This was far more intense, more mind-altering than nostalgia. Tasting her. Smelling her. Feeling her… The fantasy couldn’t compete. Neither could the images of her I saw in my head every night. The images I used to get myself off in the shower.

She wasn’t sweet. More tangy and salty. But not overpowering.

Not spicy but not bland either. It was the perfect balance of wet and sticky that clung to my tongue, tingling along the tip until I sank deeper and slurped down another taste.

And another and another. Gorging myself like it was my first and last meal.

My only meal. Except she was more than that too.

Marisela was a French dessert. Savory and decadent, yet so light and airy you couldn’t stop yourself from eating the whole box.

I’d eat this one too. Suck, lap, eat. Devour. I wouldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.

Each time my neck got stiff or my jaw started to ache, I would hear her whimper or curse or sigh and that serotonin spike kept me from feeling anything but hungry. For her. For whatever her body would give me.

But too soon, she was digging her hands in my hair and tugging me back to my feet. Flipping us around and dropping to her knees. Until only one of us got what they wanted. Until my cock was empty and her mouth was full. And all I could do was watch her leave me behind again.