Page 21
The meeting at the Blackstone Club proceeds as expected, six hours of careful negotiation with Korean business interests whose legitimate enterprises serve as perfect covers for more lucrative endeavors. We discuss shipping routes, import regulations, and the delicate balance of international relations without ever mentioning what will actually flow through these established channels.
Throughout the discussions, I drop casual references to the academic conference, to Professor Song’s research on shadow economies. The Korean businessmen exchange glances but reveal nothing beyond polite acknowledgment of her scholarly reputation. They’re too disciplined to be baited so easily.
By the time we conclude, it’s past midnight. The agreements reached are superficially about textile imports and technology exports. The subtext, the actual business, remains unspoken but mutually understood.
I return to the penthouse exhausted but satisfied. The groundwork has been laid for intercepting whatever operation Professor Song is facilitating between Korean interests and Moretti’s organization. Now I need only to leverage Lea’s connection to her mother to gain the last pieces of the puzzle.
The penthouse is quiet when I enter, lights dimmed to a soft glow. I find Lea in the bedroom, propped against pillows with a book in her lap. She’s wearing one of my dress shirts again, this one crisp white against her golden skin. The sight stirs something possessive in me despite my fatigue.
“Successful meeting?” she asks, setting the book aside.
“Productive,” I answer, removing my tie and jacket. “The Koreans are cautious but amenable to my terms.”
Her eyes track my movements as I unbutton my shirt, revealing the scars and muscle beneath. “Business or pleasure?”
I smile at her attempt to extract information. “Business is pleasure when done correctly.”
I disappear into the bathroom, emerging minutes later in silk pajama pants, chest bare. She’s still awake, watching me with those calculating eyes that miss nothing. I slide into bed beside her, propping myself against the headboard.
“Come here,” I say, not quite a command but close enough.
She hesitates for just a fraction of a second, before moving into my arms. I position her against my chest, one hand stroking her hair. The intimacy of the gesture is intentional, designed to foster trust, to lower defenses.
“Tell me about your mother,” I say, feeling her stiffen against me. “You said you don’t discuss her work. Why is that?”
She’s quiet for a moment, weighing how much truth to reveal. “She’s always been private about her research. Even when I was young, there were topics she wouldn’t discuss, papers I wasn’t allowed to read.”
This rings true, the first genuine information she’s offered without calculation. I press, “That must have been difficult, being kept at arm’s length from something so important to her.”
Another pause, longer this time. “I used to think she didn’t trust me enough to share it. Now I wonder if she was trying to protect me from something.”
“From what?” I ask, voice gentle, encouraging confidence.
She shakes her head, cheek rubbing against my chest. “I don’t know. But lately—” She stops herself, reconsidering what she was about to reveal.
I let the silence stretch, knowing sometimes the most effective interrogation technique is patience. Eventually, she continues.
“Lately she’s been even more secretive. Canceling our regular dinners, taking mysterious trips. When I ask, she deflects or changes the subject.”
I hum thoughtfully, continuing to stroke her. “Parents often believe they’re protecting their children by keeping secrets. Usually, they’re just creating distance.”
She shifts to look up at me, surprise clear in her expression. “That’s remarkably insightful.”
I smile, allowing a measured glimpse of vulnerability. “My uncle was the same way. Everything was ‘need to know,’ growing up.”
This is true, though I rarely share it, a selected personal detail designed to foster false intimacy. The strategy works; I feel her softening against me, curiosity piqued by this rare crack in my armor.
“What happened to your father? You said he died of a heart attack?” she asks.
“That not true. He was murdered by a business associate he thought was a friend,” I answer. “A situation that might have been avoided if he’d trusted my uncle enough to share his concerns.”
Her expression shifts to genuine sympathy, another crack in her performance. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “It was over thirty-five years ago. But it taught me the value of information, and the danger of keeping it from those who might help you.”
The parallel to her situation with Eunji is deliberate, and I see the moment she makes the connection. Her brow furrows, thoughts turning inward. I’ve planted the seed, the suggestion that her mother’s secrecy might place them both in danger, that sharing information with me could be the safer choice.
“Enough talk of family secrets,” I murmur, tilting her chin up with one finger. “I can think of better uses for this time.”
I kiss her then, slowly and deliberately, a careful seduction rather than earlier conquering. The softness of my approach is its own strategy, a honey trap rather than a steel cage.
She responds, melting against me in a way that seems practiced. Her hands slide up my chest as she straddles my lap with artful grace. I let her have this illusion of control, watching with hidden amusement as she believes she’s seducing me.
“You’re full of surprises, Varela,” she breathes against my mouth. “I didn’t take you for this gentle.”
I smile against her lips. “There are many sides to me you haven’t seen yet, piccola.”
My hands settle on her hips, guiding her movements as she rocks against me. The friction is maddening even through the barriers of fabric, my silk pants, her damp underwear. I could take her now, hard and fast as I did earlier, but tonight’s strategy requires a different approach. Tonight, I want her to believe she’s breaking down my defenses, gaining ground in this silent war between us.
I lift the shirt from her body, revealing inch by inch of golden skin still marked from our previous encounters. She’s beautiful in the dim light, all smooth curves and quiet strength. My hands trace the line of her collarbone, down to cup her breasts, thumbs circling nipples that harden under my touch.
She arches into the contact, a soft sound escaping her lips that seems unguarded. I file it away, another tell, another weakness to exploit. She likes this gentler touch, this illusion of mutual pleasure rather than dominance.
I flip our positions, pressing her into the mattress, my weight suspended above her. Her eyes widen before her expression shifts back to feigned desire. I lower my head, trailing kisses down her neck, her chest, taking a nipple into my mouth and sucking gently. Her back arches off the bed.
“Nico,” she breathes.
I continue my descent, mapping her body with lips and tongue, noting each reaction, each involuntary shiver. This isn’t merely pleasure, it’s reconnaissance, learning what makes her respond authentically versus what’s part of her performance. By the time I reach the waistband of her underwear, her breathing has quickened, her thighs trembling with anticipation.
I glance up, meeting her gaze as I hook my fingers into the lace, slowly dragging it down her legs. “I’ve been thinking about tasting you all day,” I murmur, the admission measured to seem like vulnerability while maintaining control.
Her eyes darken, pupils dilating with genuine desire. “Then start tasting.”
I settle between her thighs, hands spreading her legs wider. She’s already wet, arousal glistening on pink flesh. The sight stokes a primal satisfaction. Whatever game she’s playing, this physical response can’t be faked. I trace her entrance with my tongue, a slow, deliberate tease that makes her hips buck.
“Please,” she murmurs, one hand fisting in the sheets.
I oblige, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue before sucking. Her reaction is immediate, a sharp gasp, thighs tensing around my head. I establish a rhythm, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention, reading her body’s responses like a map to her surrender.
When I slide two fingers inside her, curving upward to find the spot that makes her vision blur, she cries out, a sound that seems torn from her, unplanned and uncontrolled. I work her, relentlessly, driving her toward the edge while watching for those moments of genuine response amidst the performance.
Her orgasm builds, flushed chest, quickened breath, the flutter of inner muscles around my fingers. When she breaks, it’s with a cry that sounds almost surprised, as if the intensity caught her off guard. Her body arches, thighs clamping around my head as waves of pleasure course through her.
I continue my attention through the aftershocks, only relenting when she tugs at my hair, over-sensitized and breathless. I rise to my knees, looking down at her sprawled across the sheets, skin flushed, expression dazed. This is power, seeing her undone, vulnerable in ways she can’t fake.
“Come here,” she says, reaching for me, voice still unsteady.
I move over her, positioning myself between her thighs. The head of my cock nudges against her entrance, still sensitive from her orgasm. I push forward, inch by deliberate inch, watching her face for each reaction. Her eyes flutter closed, lips parting on a silent gasp as I fill her completely.
“Open your eyes,” I command. “I want to see you.”
She complies, meeting my gaze as I begin to move inside her. The rhythm is measured, controlled, each thrust designed to build pleasure rather than overwhelm. Her hands trace the scars on my back, fingertips exploring the map of old wounds with a gentleness that feels almost like genuine curiosity.
“You feel so good,” she murmurs, lifting her hips to meet each thrust. “So deep.”
I adjust the angle, hitting the spot that makes her breath catch. “Is this what you wanted, piccola? To have me inside you again?”
She nods, biting her lower lip in a way that seems contrived to appear vulnerable. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
I smile, seeing through the performance while appreciating its execution. “Such a hungry little thing. So eager to be filled.”
Her eyes narrow at the shift in my tone, a flicker of wariness beneath the desire. I maintain the gentle rhythm, though, lulling her back into complacency.
“Tell me what you want,” I urge, voice honeyed with false surrender. “How do you want to be fucked?”
She hesitates, perhaps sensing the trap but unable to identify it. “Like this,” she says. “Slow. Deep.”
I oblige, maintaining the measured pace while escalating the depth of each thrust. Her breathing quickens, inner muscles tightening around me as another climax builds. I feel my release approaching but hold it at bay as control is the objective here, not pleasure.
“You’re getting close again,” I observe, watching the flush spread across her chest. “So responsive.”
She nods, beyond words now as sensation overwhelms performance. Her nails dig into my shoulders, leaving crescent marks that sting pleasantly.
“Tell me you want me,” I demand, voice low and commanding. “Say it.”
“I want you,” she breathes, eyes glazed with pleasure. “God, Nico, I want you.”
“Again,” I insist, driving deeper. “Louder.”
“I want you!” she cries, the declaration appearing to surprise her with its vehemence.
“What else?” I press, maintaining the relentless rhythm. “Tell me what else you want.”
She shakes her head, clearly struggling to form coherent thoughts as pleasure builds. “I—I don’t?—”
“You want information,” I supply, voice hardening. “Access. The story. Isn’t that right, piccola?”
Her eyes widen, clarity breaking through the haze of arousal. “That’s not?—”
I cut her off with a particularly deep thrust that makes her gasp. “Don’t lie. Not here. Not like this.” I wrap one hand around her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her skin flush beneath my palm. “You think you can fuck your way into my confidence? That I don’t see what you’re doing?”
Fear flashes in her eyes, subsumed by a darker heat as my grip tightens. Her inner walls clench around me, betraying her arousal at this display of dominance. “You’re just as calculating,” she manages, voice strained beneath my hand. “Using me to get to my mother.”
The accusation, so accurate it can only be confirmation she’s seen more of my files than I intended, should anger me. Instead, it triggers something darker, more primal. The pretense of a gentle lover falls away like a discarded mask.
“Smart girl,” I praise, increasing the pressure on her throat while my other hand pins her wrists above her head. “But not smart enough.”
I withdraw almost completely before slamming back into her, setting a brutal pace that makes her cry out. The gentleness of before is gone, replaced by raw possession, each thrust a claiming. My hand releases her throat to grab her hip, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to bruise.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” I growl, feeling her respond to the rougher treatment with undeniable enthusiasm. “To be taken. Controlled. Owned.”
She shakes her head in denial even as her body betrays her, inner walls fluttering around my cock, thighs trembling with impending release. “No?—”
“Yes,” I counter, leaning down to bite the junction of her neck and shoulder, marking her. “Your body can’t lie, Lea. Not to me.”
The words seem to break something in her. She arches beneath me, walls clenching as orgasm crashes through her with unexpected force. The sight of her coming undone, eyes wide with shock at her own response, pushes me over the edge. I follow her into release, emptying myself inside her with a low groan.
For several moments, we remain locked together, both panting. I see calculation returning to her eyes as the haze of pleasure recedes, the journalist reasserting control over the woman. Still buried inside her, I brush a strand of hair from her face with unexpected gentleness.
“We understand each other now, I think,” I murmur, watching her process the implications of what just happened, how her body responded to dominance despite her mind’s resistance.
She swallows hard, voice hoarse when she finally speaks. “That wasn’t—I didn’t.”
I smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead with false tenderness. “Yes, you did. And we both know it.”
I withdraw from her body, rolling to lie beside her on the mattress. She remains still for a moment before turning away, curling on her side with her back to me. The position speaks volumes, an attempt to process, to rebuild defenses, to regain control of her narrative.
I watch the subtle tension in her shoulders, the careful regulation of her breathing. She believes she’s concealing her thoughts, unaware that her very posture reveals everything, how she’s positioned herself to see my nightstand, my phone, the door to the bathroom where my laptop sits charging.
She’s still playing the game, still gathering intelligence, still believing she can maintain the upper hand. I smile in the darkness, admiring her persistence even as I counter it. She doesn’t realize that every move she makes only confirms what I already know: she’s in far deeper than she planned, responding to me in ways she never anticipated.
The mattress shifts as she slips away, her movement quiet toward the bathroom like a cat trying to be sneaky. I roll over with an amused smirk, pulling the sheets up to my chest. She’ll be sore tomorrow, but if she thinks she’s hurting now, the surprise awaiting her is far bigger.