Page 17 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

T he dress fits like a second skin. Black, asymmetrical hem, the slit running high enough to tease with every step. Against my tan and blonde hair, it’s a warning flare—look here, want this, never touch.

Tonight’s venue is members-only. Premier access, exclusive drinks, whispered promises in velvet booths. The Ledger’s name opens doors everywhere.

In the limo, Killian explained Finn’s point to draw the stalker out. To force him to move. Maybe if you go somewhere he can’t follow, he’ll get sloppy. Desperation makes mistakes.

It serves my purposes of finding this final contract without Killian’s constant pushing.

But he never once looked at me while he said it. His eyes stayed on the window, the city lights flashing against his sharp cheekbones, his jaw tight.

I pretended not to think about his cock. The piercing at its tip. The guttural sound he made when he came last night, watching me writhe in his bed. The way my orgasm ripped through me, knowing he was part of it. Knowing it was forbidden.

Finn rode in the back of the limo on our way to the date. He’s been with us all day. Which meant neither of us dared mention last night. But I caught the glances Killian thought I wouldn’t—the flash of his eyes, the grind of his jaw every time Eve mentioned the word dates.

The limo slows, pulling to the curb. Killian gets out first—tall and broad, dark against the street lamps. I expect his hand next, that steady pull that always grounds me.

But it isn’t his hand that reaches for me.

It’s Barrett Hall’s.

“Stunning,” he says, voice warm but uncertain, as though he doesn’t know how to breathe in my presence. His eyes sweep over me with something that looks more like awe than arrogance. Not the cocky playboy Killian muttered about on the way here.

“What a pleasure it is to meet you, Mr. Hall.”

I smile and take his offered hand, sliding easily into the crook of his arm. His bicep flexes beneath my palm—solid—and for a fleeting second it could be Killian’s arm under my touch.

His rumble is deep. “Please. Barrett.” He raises an eyebrow, taking my hand and placing a kiss on my knuckles.

Barrett smells like spice and clean soap. He nods at the security waiting by the door, and they wave us in without hesitation.

Behind us, Finn—and a very stern-looking Killian—follow.

Inside, the bass hums low. Velvet shadows, gold light dripping from chandeliers. Barrett leans in, tells me again how beautiful I look, his hand warm at the small of my back.

Behind him, a sound cuts through—the long exhale of a man losing patience.

I glance past Barrett’s shoulder to Killian with a tight smile. “I’ll know where to find you if I need you.”

Then I let the pro-football golden boy lead me deeper into the club, into a private booth in the VIP section. I sit, cross my legs slowly, the slit in my dress spilling open just enough to tempt.

But all I feel is the weight of his stare across the room.

Leaning against the bar like a storm bottled in flesh. His thundercloud eyes locked on me, jaw hard, body coiled.

My Irish giant.

Watching.

Waiting.

Barrett is… nice.

Not what I expected at all. He’s talkative, but not the kind of man who fills the silence with his own accomplishments.

He tells me about his nieces—adorable little girls near the same age as my niece and nephew.

His face softens when he talks about them, about teaching them to throw a football in the backyard.

He has a big family. Eldest of seven. Mom and Dad still married, still together, still in love. He laughs when he says they drive him crazy sometimes, but there’s pride in it. Warmth.

And when I ask what he’s looking for, he doesn’t dodge. Doesn’t throw out some playboy line about having fun while he’s young. He says it straight: “The perfect someone to make a life with.”

He makes subtle moves as we talk. A brush of his hand against mine when he reaches for his drink. A lean a little closer when the bass drowns out our voices. Eventually, he turns fully toward me, his palm finding my thigh. He bends close, his lips brushing my ear as he speaks over the music.

And I let myself lean into him.

The hand on my thigh slides a little higher. His voice is low, deep, threaded with genuine attention. But that’s not what has every nerve in my body sparking.

It isn’t Barrett.

It’s not even Killian anymore.

It’s her.

The gym girl. The one who dots her i’s with hearts.

She’s here. At the bar. And she’s walking straight toward my bodyguard.

Candi’s long brown hair swishes as she struts up to Killian, bright red mini clinging like shrink-wrap. His eyes are locked on mine—mine—until she cuts between us, trailing her hand along his chest like she owns him.

She must have said something, all teeth and eyelashes, because his mouth quirks. And then—God help me—he looks right at me. Holds my gaze before turning back to her.

Like he’s making sure I’m watching.

My stomach twists. Barrett doesn’t notice, too busy telling me about some prank his teammates pulled last season. All I hear is the pounding of the bass and the blood in my ears as Killian signals and the bartender slides a drink across to Candi.

She toys with the straw between her lips, slow and deliberate, like it’s an invitation for Killian to stuff her mouth with his cock.

He turns toward her, elbow propped against the bar, his posture lazy, dangerous. But his eyes—his eyes keep flicking back to me.

Barrett leans in, warm breath brushing my ear. “Dance with me?”

I nod before I can think better of it. Anything to move, to distract myself. His hand finds mine—steady, polite—guiding me to the floor.

Killian doesn’t move. He just keeps up his little performance with Candi.

The music swallows us, pulsing lights flashing. Barrett isn’t a good dancer, but I don’t need him to be. I just need him to not be Killian.

He steps behind me, hands settling at my hips, his mouth close enough to skim my neck. It’s enough to sell the scene. Enough to make it look like I’m his.

But I’m not looking at him.

I’m looking at Killian.

He’s still at the bar, still watching me even as Candi flirts like she’s auditioning for Pornhub. He plays with the ends of her hair, twisting a strand between his fingers like he’s fixing it. Then he drops it, dismissive.

She giggles. Throws her head. Rubs his arm.

My pulse spikes. I turn in Barrett’s arms, loop mine around his neck, force myself to look at him instead. His hands glide to my back, then lower. Not quite cupping my ass, but close. He whispers a compliment—something about how beautiful I am—but it’s background noise.

Because in the mirrored walls of the club, I can still see Killian.

Candi is still there.

Then he pulls out his phone. Smiles down at the screen.

My chest tightens.

She leans into him, hand on his forearm, whispering into his ear. He’s punching something in—her number? Her fucking number?

Asshole. He told me he wasn’t going to call her. And it’s stupid, so stupid, but the jealousy tastes bitter in my throat. I’ve been teasing him, taunting him, dangling what he says he can’t have… but I don’t like being on the other side of it.

I’m not supposed to be on the other side of it.

I’m the one looking for a husband. My final contract before I quit the Ledger and have a life of my own. Someone to give me a child or two. A comfortable life I’ve saved for.

Candi makes a show of kissing his cheek, her hand sliding slow down his arm before she saunters away, hips swinging, throwing a look over her shoulder that screams follow me to the bathroom and bend me over the fucking counter.

Killian doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase her.

But his head turns, eyes tracking her, a smirk tugging at his mouth that says, maybe I will.

Finn appears at Killian’s side. I can’t tell if he’s delivering a message or if Killian is. Their mouths move low, tight. Finn nods, and then Killian pats his arm once before walking off—straight in the same direction Candi just disappeared.

Finn’s hand goes to his earpiece. Within a minute, two Ledger guards are planted at the bar like little watchdogs.

Heat scorches my chest. He just… left me. Dumped me to security detail while he went for a quick fuck in a club bathroom?

Fuck him.

One song passes.

Barrett pulls two glasses of water from a passing tray for us, and my eyes scan the doorways as I sip through the straw.

He takes our glasses, giving them to another waiter, and pulls me back into him.

I press my ass against Barrett, grinding deliberately until I feel the hard ridge of his erection. My gaze cuts between us, a pointed callout without a single word. He grins like the devil himself.

“How far is your place from here?” I ask.

His smile spreads, slow and sinful. “About fifteen minutes.”

His hands roam, bolder now, grabbing a cheek and pulling me flush against him.

“Want to get out of here?”

“With you?” He takes my chin between his fingers, tilting my face up, his eyes dark. “Anywhere.”

Then his mouth is on mine—warm, open, teasing with tongue until I accept it. He goes deeper, hungrier, arms wrapping around me as he devours every inch of my mouth like he’s starving.

But it’s just… nice. It’s not fire and brimstone. There is no tension making me feel like I’ll suffocate without him.

But still, this is what I’m looking for, right? Nice. Comfort. Something steady. And Barrett is steady. He could be a good choice.

“Let’s go,” I whisper against his lips.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just takes my hand and leads me out.

The guards fall in step immediately, and one clears his throat. “Miss Wylde?—?”

“I know.” I cut him off, sharp. “Get the car and follow behind us.”

Barrett’s car is already rolling up to valet, sleek and gleaming under the lights. He opens the door, helping me inside like the perfect gentleman.

The guards look dumbfounded, frozen for half a beat. But they’ll follow. They’ll call it in.

They’ll tell a certain Irishman that I left.

And I know he’s going to be livid.