Page 3

V ictor's suite is a monument to compensatory masculinity—all sharp angles and cold surfaces, black leather and chrome, a space designed to intimidate rather than welcome. The kind of place that screams "I have money" but whispers "I'm empty inside."

The door clicks shut behind us with the finality of a jail cell. Victor's hand remains at the small of my back, five points of heat through thin silk, proprietary and controlling. His thumb traces small circles against my spine—a gesture meant to soothe, but layered with ownership.

Of course he does. Men like Victor think expensive whiskey is a personality trait.

"Sounds perfect," I purr, slipping out of my heels.

The marble floor is cool against my bare feet, anchoring me to the moment.

I move toward the windows, letting him watch me walk away—the sway of my hips, the flash of thigh through emerald silk—a performance calculated to keep his blood flowing south, away from his brain.

The city sprawls beneath us, a tapestry of light and darkness. From up here, everyone looks small. Insignificant. That's the high Victor chases—not just wealth, but the power to make others feel small.

I hear the clink of crystal, the splash of amber liquid. His footsteps approach, deliberate and measured. The scent of him reaches me first—cologne and arousal and underlying it all, that chemical sharpness of a predator's sweat.

"Quite a view," I murmur, accepting the tumbler he presses into my hand. Our fingers brush, another point of contact, another electric spark. "You must feel like a god up here."

His laugh is smug, satisfied. "It has its advantages."

I sip the whiskey—it is exceptional, smoky and complex, warming me from the inside out. The good things in life, all at his fingertips. All taken for granted.

Victor moves closer, trapping me between his body and the glass. His reflection stares back at me, superimposed over the cityscape—his kingdom, his hunting ground. One hand comes to rest on my hip, the other on the window beside my head. Caging me. Testing me.

"You're not what I expected," he says, voice low, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Most women who approach me want something. Money. Connections. A stepping stone."

"And what do you think I want?" I ask, meeting his eyes in the reflection. The contact lens makes my gaze sharper, icier. Not Landry's eyes at all.

His smile is slow, predatory. "The same thing I do." His hand slides from my hip to my stomach, pressing me back against him, letting me feel the hard ridge of his erection through expensive trousers. "Satisfaction."

I set my glass on a nearby side table, turning to face him. His pupils are blown wide, black eclipsing green, his breath coming faster. The power balance shifts with every heartbeat—him thinking he's in control, me letting him think it, both of us circling toward the same inevitable collision.

"Then what are you waiting for?" I challenge, one eyebrow raised. "I'm right here."

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe respect—before he closes the distance between us. His mouth claims mine, hard and demanding, tasting of whiskey and entitlement. His hand fists in my hair, angling my head back, deepening the kiss with bruising intensity.

It's not gentle. Not sweet. It's a conquest, a claiming, his tongue invading my mouth like he's staking territory.

His other hand grips my ass, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to leave marks.

I let him feel my response—the hitch in my breath, the way my body arches into his—a performance that's only half-fake.

This is the fucked-up part of the job Killion never explicitly spelled out: sometimes your body betrays you. Sometimes the danger, the game, the power play—it gets to you. Makes you wet. Makes you want things you shouldn't.

Victor's hands are everywhere now—rough, demanding, rucking up my dress, exposing skin inch by inch.

He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down my neck, teeth scraping against my pulse point.

"I'm going to tear you apart," he growls, and there's something darker than lust in his voice now—something closer to anger, to punishment.

I reach for his belt, fingers deftly working the Italian leather, but he catches my wrist, grip punishing. "Not yet," he says, spinning me around to face the window again. "First I want to see what I'm working with."

The zipper of my dress slides down with an obscene hiss, cool air kissing my spine.

Victor pushes the fabric off my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet in a whisper of silk.

I stand before the glass in nothing but a black lace thong and the emerald pendant, exposed to the entire city—though no one can see this high up.

It's the illusion of exhibition that matters, the fantasy of being watched.

His breath catches, a gratifying sound of appreciation. His hands smooth over my shoulders, down my back, tracing the curve of my ass with possessive heat. "Perfect," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "Fucking perfect."

I watch his reflection, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell. Behind the lust, behind the arrogance, I see something else—a flicker of insecurity, quickly masked. It's there in the way he needs to control, needs to dominate, needs to prove himself. A weak man's idea of strength.

His hand comes around to cup my breast, thumb brushing across my nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure through me that's frustratingly real. His other hand slides between my legs from behind, fingers finding the lace already damp.

"So responsive," he says, that smug satisfaction creeping back into his voice. "So fucking wet for me already."

I hate that he's right, that my body's playing along too enthusiastically with the charade. But I can use it—channel it, ride it like a wave toward the goal.

I reach back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. "Show me what you can do with those hands," I challenge, voice husky with need that's only partially manufactured. "Make me scream."

It's calculated—stroking his ego while pushing him toward what I need. The code. The information. The mission.

His fingers push aside the lace, sliding into me without warning, thick and invasive. The stretch burns, pleasure-pain that draws a genuine gasp from my lips. His thumb finds my clit, circling with surprising skill, and my knees nearly buckle from the sensation.

"That's it," he growls against my neck, fingers working me with ruthless precision. "Let go. Show me how much you want this."

I'm caught—trapped between the cold glass and his hot body, between the mission and my own traitorous responses, between Landry and Nova and whoever the fuck I am now. My breath fogs the window as he adds another finger, stretching me wider, his pace relentless.

The orgasm builds against my will, a tidal wave I can't stop, can't control. This wasn't supposed to happen—not like this, not so fast, not so real. But my body doesn't care about the mission, about Killion's training, about anything except the skilled fingers driving me higher.

"Victor," I gasp, hands braced against the glass as he finger-fucks me with brutal efficiency. "God?—"

"Say my name again," he demands, voice rough with power and arousal. "Let the whole fucking city hear who's making you cum.”

The orgasm crashes through me, sharp and unexpected, my inner walls clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure radiates outward.

I cry out his name, just like he wants, the sound raw and unfiltered.

For one terrifying moment, I lose control—of the situation, of myself, of everything—free-falling into sensation.

As I come down, trembling and disoriented, Victor withdraws his fingers, spinning me to face him. His expression is triumphant, smug, as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. "Sweet," he says, eyes never leaving mine. "Now I want to taste the source."

He drops to his knees—Victor Reese, multimillionaire, on his knees before me—and wedges himself between my legs. He buries his face between my thighs, tongue seeking, finding, devouring.

It's too much—too soon after the first orgasm, too intense, too real. I grab his hair, intending to push him away, but somehow end up pulling him closer instead. His tongue works magic, circling and flicking, drawing patterns that send aftershocks rippling through me.

This isn't how it's supposed to go. I'm supposed to be in control. I'm supposed to be using him, not the other way around.

Time for a counter-move.

"Stop," I gasp, tugging his hair sharply. "I need you. Now. Inside me."

His eyes flick up, his face a mess of my wetness.

Dripping from his chin, smeared across his nose.

Animal. His tongue swipes across puffy lips like he's starving for more.

For a second, the mask slips—millionaire, businessman, sophisticate—and I see the truth.

He's nothing but a beast in an overpriced suit and his desperate to prove himself worthy of the beautiful woman in front of him.

For a heartbeat, I think he'll just keep going, face-fucking me against the glass until I'm a quivering wreck, unable to complete my mission because I can't even stand up straight. My fingers tighten in his hair, ready to force him off.

"Please," I gasp, playing the part of the desperately needy lover. "I’ll die if I don’t feel you inside me."

The magic words. The formula that works on every man who thinks with his dick. His ego inflates like someone jammed an air pump into it. He rises from his knees, all smug superiority again, my juices still marking his face like war paint.

"Bed," he commands, voice like gravel. "Now."