Page 28 of The Colour of Revenge

Carina is quiet for a minute. Then, another text comes through.

My breath catches. My blood doesn't just rush south—it packs a suitcase and books a one-way ticket.

She's sent a photo.

And not just any photo. It's a lingerie photo that should come with a warning label and a defibrillator.

She's perched on the edge of a bed, knees slightly spread, head tilted back like she just won Hottest Person Alive and decided to rub it in my face. It's the kind of image that ruins a man. Primal. Caveman-level. Must claim. Now.

I groan, adjusting my cock, already straining. "That's better than any of my wildest fantasies."

"Better than watermelon tits?"

"So much better, Princess."

Sure, we've been flirting, and it's obvious from how she looks at me that the attraction is mutual, but this… I wasn't expecting this.

Another photo comes through.

This time, her hand is cupping her breast. Fuck.

I choke on the air, gripping my phone tighter. "What are you doing, Carina?"

My screen vibrates. She's switching to FaceTime. My thumb slams the accept button before I can think better of it.

Her face appears, all teasing smirks and hooded eyes. "Well… turns out plotting murder makes me horny."

These are not words I ever expected a woman to say, but Jesus Christ, I am here for it.

"Is that so?" I lean back in my chair, smirking.

"It is."

She flips the camera, angling it down. My brain short-circuits like a cheap Roomba.

Pink lace. Soft curves. A body that could bring empires to their knees.

Her breasts are practically spilling over the delicate fabric, the rise and fall of her chest hinting at anticipation. Her waist curves into hips that deserve worship, and a soft belly that practically begs to be kissed.

I'm torn between proposing marriage on the spot or screaming into a pillow for an hour.

"You're fucking perfect," I groan, palming my cock through my suit.

She shifts on the bed, positioning the camera to show her whole body.

Her hands start moving.

"Carina…" I warn, my voice already thick with desire.

"Nate…" she whimpers, fingertips teasing over her nipples, rolling them through the lace. Peaks stiffen against the sheer fabric, and my pulse pounds.

"Touch yourself." My command is gravel, dark and edged with impatience.

"I am," she breathes, arching slightly.

"Lower."

She hesitates. Then, one hand drifts down, fingers pressing against the damp fabric between her thighs. She rubs slowly, dragging a sigh from her lips.