Page 19 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

B arrett’s penthouse is nice. Cold. The kind of space decorated by some designer his mother probably picked out. Tasteful, elegant… but lacking any trace of him.

I step out onto the wide, curved balcony and let the city greet me. The skyline glitters under the night sky, a million lights battling the glow of the moon. Beautiful. Distant. Untouchable.

My hands glide over the smooth railing. I jut my hip, feeling the cool steel beneath my palms.

Barrett comes up behind me, tall flute of champagne in hand. “For you,” he says.

“Thank you.” I take it, the bubbles crisp against my lips. His body crowds mine—not demanding, but present. His callused hands skim down my arms, and he breathes me in.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t assume. “I don’t expect anything from tonight except a chance to get to know you,” he murmurs.

“So, get to know me,” I answer, my voice softer than I intend. If only he realized I’m already known—watched, studied, touched by a man who pretends he doesn’t want me.

Barrett shifts my hair over my shoulder, lips pressing warm against the side of my neck. My eyes slip closed. My head tilts back, rests against him.

For a heartbeat, it’s Killian’s mouth I feel. Killian’s rough hands on me.

Barrett’s hands explore—respectful but sensual—sliding over curves like he’s savoring the chance to touch. I pretend it’s Killian. His tall, thick form pressing me forward into the railing. His lips, his heat, his weight.

His hand traces up my bare thigh, sliding beneath the hem of my dress. He exhales when he finds the silk of my panties, when his fingers brush the wetness there.

A groan vibrates against my ear. He thinks it’s for him.

“You feel incredible,” he whispers, mouth trailing fire along my neck.

I moan, low. “Do I?” Not for you. For him.

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.

No tongue. Barely there. But enough. Enough to nearly shatter the fragile hold Killian’s got on himself. His hand flexes into a fist, dangerously close to the knife at his side, and I keep my eyes locked on him the entire time. Smiling, wicked, daring.

“Let’s go,” he growls. Low, lethal, sending a shiver down my spine.

I step past Barrett with a flirty, “See you around.”

Killian falls into step behind me. Following me into the hall like the storm he is. The elevator attendant waits, holding the door. We step inside.

It’s like walking with a hurricane at my back, pretending it isn’t about to tear me apart.

The doors close. Tension builds with each floor, pressing tighter, hotter, until the lobby’s lights flood through the crack of the opening doors.

I head for the exit, chin high. But his grip clamps around my upper arm—firm, commanding, unyielding—and wrenches me to the right.

“Killian—” I exclaim under my breath.

He says nothing.

The ladies’ room door slams against the wall as he shoves me inside. Two women at the mirror startle, lipstick tubes clattering.

“Out.”

One word. Barked, brutal. They scatter, heels urgently tapping out their retreat, leaving me alone with the tempest I dared to poke.