Page 42 of Masked Seduction

I picture Jenna again. The way she stood beside the table, the little pinch of confusion on her face when I told her she didn’t need to stay, how she tilted her head like she was seconds from asking a question but too smart to interrupt.

That body.

That fucking mouth.

Yes, she’s very capable.

But she’s also something else. Something I haven’t figured out yet.

But I will.

The meeting wraps up. Mikail stretches with a grunt, then smirks. I walk them to the elevator like I always do.

As we approach the doors, Denis lowers his voice, slipping into Russian. “I’ll send the Sorella footage. You’ll want to see it. It’s worse than what we’ve heard.”

“Spliced feed?” I ask.

He nods. “Amateurs. But someone cleaned up the outside cameras. Inside’s intact.”

“Good.” I glance at Mikail. “And the Charleston?”

He sighs. “Lawyer says it’s stalled. Zoning board is dragging their feet, probably waiting for a payoff.”

“Then pay them,” I say flatly. “And tell Oleg to lean on the board chair’s brother-in-law. He runs a car lot in Henderson. Dirty financing. That’s leverage.”

Mikail raises his eyebrows. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

I offer a small smile. “You’re already on it.”

Denis chuckles. “He’s joking.”

“Am I?” I ask dryly. We all laugh.

The elevator dings softly. Mikail pauses as the doors open. “You good, Abram?”

I nod once. “Always.”

“Then tell your new assistant to stop bending over so much,” he teases. “I nearly forgot why we were here.”

I say nothing, letting the words hang as they step inside. Mikail gives me a two-fingered salute. “See you later.”

The doors slide shut, sealing them off.

Restlessness rumbles beneath my skin. Like tension strung too tight across the ribs. I tell myself it’s the Agosti problem. The territory lines. The shifting whispers about Don Agosti’s health. There’s work to be done, as always.

But that’s not what’s causing the tension. It’sher.

I return to the conference room where the remnants of the meeting remain—half-empty coffee cups, half-eaten pastries, a delicate trace of citrus and berries lingering in the air.

And then there’s the faintest scent of her perfume.

I sit, the leather groaning under my weight, and pick up my pen. I don’t write anything, I just hold it, turning it between my fingers.

I’m a careful man. Always have been. I don’t fuck employees. I don’t let my mind wander in meetings. I don’t imagine what my assistant would look like if she were in my bed.

Except I’ve done all of those things in the span of three days.

Friday night crashes into my mind like a wave I didn’t see coming. Her hands on my chest, her mouth exploring mine like it belonged to her. The way she moaned underneath me.