Page 19 of Ruthless Arrangement (The Diplomat #1)

Nico

I wake to the weight of Lea’s head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. The specific quality of the early morning light slanting through the blinds paints stripes across her naked back. She sleeps the way innocents do, deeply though I know better than most how deceptive appearances can be.

Last night replays in my mind: her planned surrender, the way she started our encounter after watching me handle Moretti’s threats. Too convenient. Too perfectly timed.

Marco’s voice is still in my head from our last private conversation on the balcony. “She’s playing you,” he’d warned, eyes narrowed with concern. “The timing is suspicious. First, she’s snooping through your laptop, then she can’t wait to fuck you? Come on, boss.”

I’d dismissed him with a wave, though not because I disagreed. Of course she’s playing me. I’ve encountered enough strategic seductions to recognize one. What Marco doesn’t understand is that manipulation can cut both ways, with each player believing they hold the strings.

Lea stirs against me, her leg shifting across mine. Even in sleep, she’s positioned herself strategically, one arm draped across my torso, pinning me while appearing affectionate. I smile at the subtle maneuver. She’s better at this game than I gave her credit for.

I run my fingers along her spine, counting the vertebrae like rosary beads. She arches into the touch without waking, a purely physical response and therefore genuine. These unguarded moments are precious, the only times I see past her performance to the woman beneath.

Her eyelids flutter, consciousness returning. I feel the exact moment awareness hits her, the slight tensing of muscles, the shift in breathing. She makes a deliberate show of stretching languorously, as if untroubled by waking in my arms after all we’ve done. As if this is where she wants to be.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice husky with sleep. The sound stirs something in me, something I quickly suppress.

“Sleep well?” I ask, keeping my tone casual despite the possessive heat that flares at the sight of the marks I’ve left on her neck, her collarbone, the soft curve of her breast.

She nods, sitting up to survey the room. The sheet falls to her waist, leaving her breasts exposed. The morning light loves her skin, turning it golden against the white cotton. My shirt from yesterday lies crumpled at the foot of the bed where I tossed it before taking her the second time last night.

“May I?” she asks, reaching for it.

I nod, watching as she slips it on. There’s something satisfying about seeing her in my clothing, a primitive marking of territory that appeals to the part of me that operates on instinct rather than calculation.

She rises, the shirt falling to mid-thigh, revealing long legs still bearing faint red marks from my grip. She doesn’t bother buttoning it, leaving the top three undone to reveal the curve of her breasts and the constellation of marks I’ve left there. The sight makes my cock stir despite the thoroughness of last night’s activities.

“Coffee?” she asks, padding toward the kitchen with a deliberate sway to her hips.

“Please,” I respond, making no move to leave the bed just yet. The view is too enticing.

I listen to her move around the kitchen, the sound of water filling the carafe, the quiet hiss as the machine brews. Ordinary sounds made extraordinary by their domesticity. By the illusion of normalcy, they create.

When she returns with two steaming mugs, I’ve propped myself against the headboard, sheet pooled at my waist. Her eyes linger on my bare chest, tracking the scars that map my history. Some from childhood, some from business gone wrong, all part of the record that made me who I am.

“Cream, no sugar,” she says, handing me the mug. That she remembers how I take my coffee shouldn’t please me as much as it does.

“Thank you.” I accept the offering, allowing our fingers to brush in the exchange. She doesn’t pull away from the contact, another deliberate move in our ongoing chess match.

She perches on the edge of the bed, legs tucked beneath her, studying me over the rim of her mug. “What’s the plan for today? Still heading to your penthouse?”

I sip my coffee, appreciating the rich bitterness. “After breakfast. I have some business to attend to this afternoon, a meeting with international contacts that can’t be rescheduled.”

Her expression brightens with feigned interest. “Will I be joining you at the meeting?”

And there it is, the journalist beneath the lover, always hunting for access, for information, for the story. I hide my amusement behind another sip of coffee.

“Not this time,” I reply, watching disappointment flicker across her features before she masks it. “These particular associates are traditional in their views. A woman’s presence would complicate matters.”

She nods, accepting the explanation without protest, another sign of her new strategy. The old Lea would have argued, pushed for inclusion, demanded equal access. This new, compliant version sets my teeth on edge even as it captivates me.

“I understand,” she says, setting her mug on the nightstand. “I should get dressed then.”

She makes no move to retrieve her clothes, instead sliding the shirt from her shoulders with deliberate slowness. The fabric whispers against her skin as it falls, pooling around her knees on the bed. She’s naked now, her skin flawless in the morning light, her nipples hard, her pussy bare and glistening. She watches me, daring me to react.

My cock twitches, already hard, but beneath the desire, anger simmers. She thinks she’s playing me, this 23-year-old journalist with her clever eyes and traitor’s heart. She thinks she can manipulate me , The Diplomat, the man who breaks empires. Last night was a taste, but today, I’m going to punish her until she can’t walk for days.

I set my coffee aside, my eyes never leaving her. “You think you can tease me, piccola?” I growl, my voice low, dangerous. “Think you can flash that pretty body and I’ll forget you’re a manipulating journalist who thinks she’s clever?”

Her eyes widen, maybe a flicker of fear, but she covers it with a sultry smile. “I’m just getting ready, Nico. Don’t you want me to?”

The teasing innocent tone is decent acting, but not fooling me. She’s still trying to play me. I’m on her in a second, as I yank her head back. She gasps, but her pupils dilate, betraying her arousal. “On your knees. Now.”

She hesitates, just enough to test me, and I tighten my grip, forcing her off the bed and onto the floor. She lands on her knees, looking up at me with a mix of defiance and heat. “You’re such a bastard,” she mutters, but her hands are already reaching for my belt.

“Keep talking,” I say, my voice cold. “It’ll only make this rougher.” I unbuckle my pants, freeing my cock, already rock-hard and leaking. Her eyes widen at the size, and I smirk. “Open that smart mouth, Lea. Let’s see how well you take your punishment.”

She leans forward, her tongue darting out to lick the tip, and I groan, the sensation shooting through me. But I’m not here for gentle. I grab her head with both hands, holding her still, and thrust into her mouth, hard and deep. She gags, her throat constricting around me, but she doesn’t pull back. Fuck, she takes it like a champ, her eyes watering as I fuck her face, each thrust punishing, relentless.

“That’s it,” I growl, my voice rough with pleasure. “Choke on my cock, you little liar. You thought you could play me? This is what you get.”

She moans around me, the vibration sending a jolt through my balls, and I feel her hands grip my thighs, steadying herself as I push deeper. Her gags are loud, wet, and fucking perfect, her throat tight and hot. Tears stream down her cheeks, but she’s not fighting me. She’s taking it, her tongue swirling even as she struggles to breathe. “Fuck, you’re good at this,” I say, my voice thick. “Look at you, gagging on my dick like you were born for it.”

She tries to pull back, gasping for air, and says, “You’re such a fucking prick.” Her voice is hoarse, defiant, and it only fuels my anger.

“Wrong answer,” I snarl, shoving back into her mouth, deeper this time, holding her there until she’s choking, her hands slapping my thighs. “Talk back again, and I’ll fuck your throat until you pass out.” I pull out just before I come, my cock slick with her spit, and she coughs, panting, her lips swollen and red. She’s a mess, and it’s fucking beautiful.

“Get up,” I order, yanking her to her feet by her hair. She stumbles, but I don’t give her time to recover. I spin her around, bending her over the bed, her ass in the air, her pussy glistening. “You don’t get to come until I say so,” I say, my hand cracking against her ass, hard enough to leave a red print. She cries out, but her hips push back, begging for more.

“You’re an asshole,” she gasps, her voice trembling with a mix of pain and need.

I spank her again, harder, and she moans, the sound raw and desperate. “Keep talking, piccola,” I say, my voice a dark promise. “Every word makes me want to fuck you even harder.” I pull her head back, arching her spine. “You’re mine, Lea. Your body, your lies, your fucking soul. I own you.”

I line up my cock, teasing her entrance, and she whimpers, trying to push back. I hold her still, my grip bruising. “Beg for it,” I demand. “Tell me how bad you want my cock.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, but her voice cracks, her body trembling.

I laugh, and thrust into her, hard and deep, filling her in one brutal stroke. She screams, her walls clenching around my cock. “That’s it,” I growl, pulling out and slamming back in, setting a punishing rhythm. “Take it, you little slut. Take every fucking inch.”

Her moans are loud, uncontrolled, the bed creaking under us as I fuck her from behind, my hand still fisted in her hair, pulling hard enough to make her gasp. “You like this, don’t you?” I say, my voice rough. “Getting fucked like a whore by the man you’re trying to destroy. Your pussy’s so wet, it’s dripping down your thighs.”

“Shut up,” she gasps, but her hips meet every thrust, her body betraying her.

I spank her ass again, the sound loud in the room, and she cries out, her walls fluttering around me. “Don’t fucking tell me to shut up,” I snarl, forcing her to arch further. “You’re gonna take this cock and love every second of it.”

I’m close, my balls tightening, but I want her to come with me, to feel her shatter around me. I lean forward, spitting on her exposed asshole, the act filthy and possessive. She gasps, shocked, and I jab a finger deep inside her ass, no warning, no gentleness. She moans, loud and raw, her body tensing, then relaxing as pleasure overtakes her.

“Fuck, Nico!” she cries, her voice a mix of surprise and ecstasy. “Oh God?—”

“That’s right,” I growl, pumping my finger in time with my thrusts, my cock driving into her pussy, my finger stretching her ass. “Come for me, Lea. Come all over my cock while I fuck your tight little holes.”

She’s trembling, her moans turning to sobs as the pleasure builds, and I feel her walls clench, her body seizing as she comes, her scream ripping through the room. Her pussy milks my cock, and it’s too much. I follow her over the edge, my release hitting like a freight train, spilling deep inside her with a guttural groan.

We collapse onto the bed, both panting, sweat-slick and spent. I pull out, watching my cum drip from her, marking her as mine. She’s trembling, her face flushed, her body marked with my handprints, my bites. I pull her close against me, my arm around her waist, and she curls into me, her breath ragged.

“You think you can play me,” I murmur against her ear, my voice low, dangerous. “But you’re mine, Lea. Every lie, every scheme, every fucking inch of you. Try to run, and I’ll drag you back.”

She leaves for the bathroom and as I stare at the ceiling, my mind’s already shifting to the war ahead. Lea’s dangerous, a fucking liability, but she’s my liability.

* * *

An hour later, she emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I’m already dressed in the suit Marco brought from my penthouse, charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes, a burgundy tie that matches the sheets she writhed against earlier.

Lea heads for the bedroom to get dressed, and once she’s out of sight, I position my laptop at a specific angle, one that ensures she’ll be able to see the screen if she glances over when she returns. Then I open an email thread I’ve prepared in advance.

From: Dr. Reginald Hammon To: Nico Varela Subject: Academic Conference Sponsorship Request Mr. Varela, Following our discussion at last month’s charity gala, I’m writing to formally request your consideration for sponsorship of our upcoming International Economic Systems Conference. As mentioned, we’ve secured several distinguished speakers, including Professor Eunji Song, whose work on shadow economies has generated significant interest among policy makers. Professor Song’s lecture series, “Invisible Networks: How Unofficial Systems Sustain Global Commerce,” will be the centerpiece of our program. Given your foundation’s interest in international business relations, I believe this would align with your philanthropic goals. Please let me know if you require any additional information. Regards, Dr. Reginald Hammon, Chair of Economics Department Chicago University.

I hear the bedroom door open and continue scrolling through emails as if absorbed in my morning correspondence. From the corner of my eye, I catch Lea’s entrance, now dressed in fitted jeans and a simple blue blouse that brings out the warmth in her skin. She moves with a careful stiffness she attempts to disguise, favoring one side, a detail I file away with grim satisfaction. The morning lesson left its mark.

She moves to the kitchen to refill her coffee, but her path takes her behind me. I feel the moment her eyes catch on the screen, the subtle pause in her movement, the hitch in her breath. She thinks I don’t notice, but I register every nuance.

“More coffee?” she offers, her voice steady, though perhaps a fraction huskier than usual. A deliberate performance of normalcy.

“Please,” I respond, clicking to another email as if unaware of her interest.

She returns with my refilled mug, setting it beside my laptop with perhaps more care than necessary, avoiding any sudden movements. She moves to the other side of the table, settling into her chair with a subtle adjustment I interpret as easing sore muscles.

“This conference sounds interesting,” she says, careful to keep her tone casual. “My mother mentioned something about a lecture series, but I didn’t realize it was such a big event.”

I glance up, regarding her with mild interest. Her eyes meet mine, a challenge beneath the pleasant inquiry. She’s putting on a brave face, pretending last night didn’t rattle her, didn’t break something inside her even as her body surrendered. “Your mother is quite respected in academic circles. Her work on shadow economies is groundbreaking.” I pause, watching her eyes. “Have you read any of her research?”

She shakes her head, a flicker of genuine emotion, regret, perhaps, crossing her features. “Not as much as I should have. We don’t talk about her work often.”

“Interesting,” I murmur, filing away the nugget of genuine information. “Most daughters would be proud of such academic achievements.”

Something darkens in her expression, a touch of real hurt breaking through the performance. “I am proud of her. We just have different interests.”

I nod, allowing the subject to drop though I’ve confirmed what I suspected: there’s distance between Lea and her mother, an emotional gap I might exploit. Knowledge is currency in my world, and I’ve just acquired another valuable coin.

“We should leave within the hour,” I say, changing the subject. “Marco will meet us at the penthouse with updates on Moretti’s movements.”

She nods, sipping her coffee. Her grip on the mug is tight, knuckles white. She’s processing, analyzing, likely trying to reconcile the tenderness I showed her later with the brutality that preceded it. Good. Let her be confused. Let her remain off balance. “I’ll be ready.”

* * *