Page 12 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

T he 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, the scruff 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.

I tilt my head, all innocence. “Nope.”

Then I undo the robe and let it slide off my shoulders, tossing it to the bed. Green silk and lace gleams under the light, and Killian’s mouth actually parts. His gaze drags down me, slow and shameless, and something tight coils in my belly.

I saunter past him like I’m not on fire, grab my black stilettos, then return—close enough to smell the clean bite of his cologne.

“Find anything out about the pictures?” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.

His eyes darken, stormy gray, his reply a husky rumble. “We’re pulling the gym’s security footage and member list. The restaurants, too—cameras and staff.”

I slip on one heel, then shift closer, bracing a hand against his forearm to steady myself as I slide into the other. His skin is warm under the thin sleeve, muscle flexing tight when I lean into him. His throat works.

He clears it.

I almost smile, almost ask another question, almost think about pressing my palm lower—just to see if he’s hard for me. But Finn’s footsteps echo down the hall, breaking the spell.

“Oi, Shaw?”

In an instant Killian moves, one hand searing around my bare waist as he turns me, the other braced over my head as he nudges the door shut. My back hits the wood, breath trapped in my chest. He cages me in, his body heat wrapping around me, mint and something darker on his breath.

Finn’s voice carries from the hall. “We’ve lads in place at the restaurant for tonight. Blended in already.”

Killian turns his head slightly to the side, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “Okay.”

“What’s the matter?” I whisper, pulse thrumming. “Don’t want Finn to see me like this?”

His fingers flex against my skin, tightening. His face lowers, impossibly close. “I don’t want anyone seeing you like this.”

The words drop heavy between us, vibrating through me. His eyes flick from mine to my mouth, lingering, and for a moment I swear he’s going to kiss me.

Heat pools low, thighs pressing together. My thoughts from the shower flood back, sharper now, so real it aches.

And then his voice drops, low, steady, stripped of any teasing. “I wasn’t going to call her.”

The air leaves my lungs. My throat works as I swallow.

“What you do is no business of mine.”

His gaze narrows. “Isn’t it?”

A knock jolts us both, sharp against the door. I yelp, and Killian’s mouth twists into a grin that only makes me wetter.

“Kill?” It’s Finn again.

“Be right there,” he calls, stepping back. He picks up my robe, holds it out.

Our fingers brush, the touch sparking hot and impossible to ignore as I step away from the door. He pauses at the knob, looking back at me one last time.

“We leave in ten.”

His eyes drag down my body again—slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every detail. As if he wants to see this when he looks at me tonight, wearing the dark-green dress for my date.

Then the door clicks shut, soft and final, leaving me—heart racing, knees weak, and skin burning where his hands just were.

W alking into the restaurant, I lean toward Killian, my voice low. “Maintenance will be by later. The toilet won’t stop running.”

He gives a short nod, presses two fingers to his earpiece. “Finn, you hear that?”

A muffled Irish reply comes through—“Aye, got it.”

Then Killian straightens, hand firm at the small of my back as he steers me into the dimly lit dining room.

Daniel Ruiz is already there. My date.

Older. Not old. Silver just starting at his temples—the kind that looks deliberate, like he could’ve dyed it in that way politicians do: enough to look dignified, not enough to look frail.

His posture screams for a camera—one hand resting casually on the table, chin lifted, eyes scanning the room like there’s a press corps hiding behind the ficus plants.

When he stands, his smile is the practiced, calculated kind. Perfect teeth. Perfect angle. He leans in for the obligatory cheek kiss, and I let him, noting how even his cologne feels rehearsed.

“Seraphina.” He says my name like it’s a campaign slogan. “You look radiant.”

I thank him as Killian pulls my chair out, same as he did at the last date.

His hand brushes my back as I lower myself, and I let my dress shift just enough that the silk climbs higher on my thigh.

When I glance back to murmur a quiet “thank you,” I catch him staring—not at my face, but lower. Eyes sharp, unblinking.

A thrill skates down my spine.

Daniel talks. I half listen. His words are slick, polished, designed for an audience. The country needs fresh leadership. I have eyes on me everywhere I go. My opponents can’t find a single flaw in my record.

He doesn’t see me. Not really. He sees what I could be to him.

A prop.

A perfect wife for photo ops.

Killian has taken up position at the bar in my periphery. He looks like he belongs there—dark suit, sleeves rolled, forearms braced on polished wood. Watching me. Watching him.

So I play.

I let my fingers trail up the stem of my wineglass, slow and idle, like I’m flirting with the crystal itself.

Later, when my napkin “slips” to the floor, I lean down to reach it—only Killian gets there first. His eyes flick down my neckline, catching the sheer lace of the bra pushing my breasts together.

When I take the napkin back, I make sure our fingers brush. I offer an innocent smile of gratitude.

His return look isn’t innocent at all. It’s warning. You’re pushing it.

And it only makes me push harder.

The sharp clink of glass snaps Killian’s gaze to the table next to us as a guest fusses with spilled water. Daniel clears his throat, dragging my attention back to him. His eyes are sharp, evaluating. “Would you be comfortable converting to Catholicism?”

I blink, the commotion at the table next to me forgotten as the guest leaves with a wet lap. “Excuse me?”

“For optics.” He says it like it’s obvious. “My constituents prefer a traditional family unit. It’s important they see us aligned on faith.”

Us.

Aligned.

Like I’m already standing at his side at some podium while he raises our hands in victory.

He doesn’t pause before continuing. “And when we are married…”

When.

My stomach tightens—not with nerves, but irritation. There’s something so casually presumptuous in his tone, like the choice is already made for me.

I force a pleasant smile, leaning forward so my leg shifts again, giving just enough of a tease Daniel might think it’s for him. But I know who’s really watching. Killian’s jaw is tight, his forearm flexed against the bar like he’s holding himself back.

Good. Let him stew. Let him wonder if Daniel Ruiz will be the one to pull this dress off me and see what’s beneath.

The thought shouldn’t thrill me. But it does.

When Daniel starts talking about children—our children—I know I’ve reached my limit. Two of them, he says, with the kind of precision only a man who treats life like a campaign strategy could muster. Cesarean births. Genders chosen in a lab. A boy first, then a girl.

The smile never leaves my face, but my eyes find Killian’s. The smallest tilt of my head is all it takes. I want out, and he makes it happen in a minute.

The ride back blurs. Eve’s voice fills the car, light and quick as she asks about the date, then launches into updates about new prospects waiting in the wings.

I give her just enough to keep her satisfied, letting her words wash over me until she finally signs off, her call ending the moment the elevator opens into the hush of my floor.

One of Killian’s new men is stationed at the door, standing straighter when we approach. Finn is off for the night, so I guess this kid drew the short straw.

“Sir,” he says, stepping aside. “Maintenance came by. Left about thirty minutes ago.”

The words stop me for a fraction of a second. I haven’t seen a single alert from my security system—not so much as a buzz on my phone. That’s unusual. Unsettling, but it has happened once or twice when the app was buggy.

I slip inside, heels clicking softly across the polished floors, my pulse already tight in my throat. Past the bedroom, toward the bathroom. And that’s when I hear it—water. The toilet is still running.

My jaw clenches.

I push the door fully open and flick on the light.

And in the same instant, dread crashes through me like a wave breaking over stone. It isn’t the toilet at all. It isn’t anything that simple.

What waits inside turns my blood to ice.