Page 49 of The Final Contract

His other hand cups my breast, thumb teasing the hard peak through my dress. Below, he rubs slow circles over my pussy through the thin silk before dipping beneath the band. A thick finger slides between my lips, gathering my wetness before circling back to my clit.

“You’re already so wet,” he rasps. “For me?”

“Yes,” I lie, wrapping a hand around his neck. For him.

He chuckles against my skin, lips brushing my jaw. “I want to take my time with you.”

“You should,” I whisper, tilting my head to give him more access. Because he won’t. Killian would ruin me fast and filthy—because he couldn’t stand anyone else having me.

Barrett’s finger moves in tighter circles, drawing another moan from me.

“God, you’re perfect,” he says. “Every man in that club wanted you, and you came with me.”

I bite my lip, eyes squeezing shut.

“Lucky you.” But unlucky me. Because the only man I wanted is probably tearing the city apart looking for me.

My mind betrays me, conjuring the thick weight of Killian’s pierced cock, the way I’d lick around it, taste him, drive him mad until he finally gave in and fucked me deep.

Here, in Barrett’s arms, I pretend. Pretend this is what it feels like to give in to Killian. To stop fighting. To let go the way he refuses.

But the pleasure doesn’t build. It stalls, stutters. Because it isn’t Killian.

It isn’t tension and heat and stubborn will pushing against every breath I take. It isn’t the man who makes me want to break rules I didn’t know I had.

I rock my hips, trying to chase it anyway, trying to wring something out of Barrett’s touch. But the climax doesn’t want to give itself over. Not to him.

“You’re unreal, you know that?” Barrett murmurs against my neck, his finger circling slow. “Any man would kill for this.”

One already might.

Before I can answer, before I can tell him another lie, pounding rattles the other side of his door.

Barrett curses, pulling his hand from between my thighs.

I smile. Because I know exactly who that is.

I tug my dress down, smooth my hair, and lean against the patio door like I’ve been there all night. Sip champagne while Barrett stomps through his perfect, personality-free penthouse and yanks the door open.

The thunderstorm that is Killian eases into the room. He doesn’t explode. He never does. He’s a slow detonation, building the anticipation until all you can do is wait for the boom.

His eyes find me in an instant. Not the black of my dress. Not the champagne in my hand. Me. His gaze latches onto me like gravity itself dragged him forward.

Barrett steps in, trying to plant himself as a wall. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

Killian doesn’t need to answer. Doesn’t need to push. He is the push, the weight, the darkness that nothing stands against. Barrett might be built like him—tall and solid—but he doesn’t have that heaviness. That inevitability. Killian would thunder past him without a thought.

“We have an issue,” Killian says, voice low, carved from stone. “Date’s over.”

Barrett bristles, unwilling to let another man walk into his penthouse and take over. His jaw tightens. “What, you think you own her?”

He doesn’t own me. Barrett Hall sure as fuck doesn’t. But Killian?—

Killian looks at me like he knows better. Like he can see every inch Barrett’s touched, every spot his lips lingered, and he’s cataloging them. Marking them.

I set down my champagne and saunter toward Barrett. My smile is sweet, deliberate. “Thank you. I had a lovely night.”

He half-blocks Killian, defiant to the end, and takes my chin between two fingers. Tilts my head up. “I’ll call you,” he whispers before pressing a tender kiss to my lips.