Page 30 of The Final Contract

I glance at Finn. “Get extra guys on tonight’s date. I want them there early. Put them in uniforms for the restaurant—staff coverage.”

He nods. “I’ll call the restaurant. Get on it now.”

Good man.

I watch the closed bedroom door, my jaw aching. I don’t like this. Don’t like the stalker getting this close. And I sure as hell don’t like her going out on another fucking date.

The shower is everything.

Worth every obscene dollar I dropped on the custom head system. The water pressure alone could bring a dead woman back to life, and the heat soaks into every tense muscle until my head tips back against the tile.

I should be thinking about tonight. About getting dressed, about keeping my chin high, about pretending I don’t have a stalker who could be waiting outside every window.

But my mind strays somewhere else. Someone else.

Killian.

I picture him shirtless, the faint trail of hair running down his chest to that narrow line disappearing beneath his shorts—the one that all but begs me to pull them down, see what he’s hiding. Broad shoulders, corded muscle, strength wrapped in restraint. I imagine those shoulders between my thighs, my legs draped over them while he feasts on me like he’s starving, thescruff of his trimmed beard only making everything feel more amazing.

My hand drifts, but it’s the shower wand I reach for. I switch it to my favorite setting, aim the stream right where I want it. The jet hits, sharp and perfect, and I bite my lip. I think of his fingers, thick and rough, driving into me. Of his cocky fucking mouth closing around my nipple—tugging, teasing, devouring until I break.

The orgasm comes fast, ripping through me before I can stifle the pant that escapes my throat. My free hand slaps against wet tile, steadying me.

And then another thought hits—what if he heard me?

What if Killian thought I was in trouble, kicked the door in, and found me like this? Would he watch? Would he join me?

The image of him standing there, eyes hard and hungry, makes my pulse stutter. My body heats all over again, need sharper this time.

Soap suds cling to my skin, slick and slippery, as I bring the wand back between my thighs. Bracing against the shower wall, I let it push me higher, harder, until the pleasure tears through me again, stronger than the first time. My mouth opens on a silent cry, every nerve burning, every thought painted in steel-gray eyes and the wordless promise behind them.

The shower leaves me flushed and loose-limbed, skin tingling from the heat and… other things.

Now I’m put back together. Hair smooth, makeup flawless, dark-green lingerie hugging me in all the right places. The minidress hanging in my closet matches—emerald silk with a sinful hemline. I’m choosing jewelry—still irritated about the running toilet I forgot to schedule maintenance for—when it hits me.

Fuck.

The phone number.

Candi-with-a-heart. Killian’s next potential fuck buddy, folded neatly in my purse. The purse he said he was going to scan.

I cinch my robe tight, heart hammering, and hurry to the door. But when I swing it open, I nearly collide with Killian’s fist, raised and ready to knock.

I freeze. Breathless. My cheeks blaze, heat spreading down my neck.

His brows lift slightly, like he notices. Pretends he doesn’t.

And God help me—he’s changed. All black, suit pants and fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled three-quarters up. Casual, lethal. Those forearms—veins, muscle, strength—make me want to sink my teeth in.

“I scanned your bag.” He sets it on the bed like a finished task. “No bugs.”

He drifts back to the doorway, shoulder against the frame, ankles crossed—the picture of relaxed control. Except his eyes give him away—already darker, heavier on me than they should be.

“You know, I had a few extra minutes to run back to my car.” His tone is lazy. “You know what happened to that piece of paper?” He says it like a question, but it’s not. It’s a game.

Shit. He saw it. Knows it ended up in my purse.

Fine. If he wants to play, I’ll play.