Page 9 of The Final Contract (The Black Ledger Billionaires #5)

I stand in her living room, one hand braced on my hip, the other lifting a glass of wine to my mouth.

Her space is… light. Airy. Very much Seraphina. Not the polished, poised Ledger Companion she wears like armor. This is the Sunday-morning version—rolling over with a sleepy smile, asking to go to brunch, the side of her hardly anyone else gets to see.

Books line the wall, floor to ceiling. A gas fireplace flickers low, throwing shadows across the room. And then there’s the couch. Big, deep, soft enough to swallow me whole. Most furniture never fits me, but this? There’s room. Plenty.

I can almost see it: me stretched out, her curled against my chest, her laugh muffled against my shirt while some movie drones on in the background.

I take a long breath and blink that away, dragging my attention to the wide windows and the sun catchers fixed on them. Even at night, the glass gleams. By day, I think of the sun catching them, scattering colors across the floor. I think about what she looks like standing in that light.

I raise the glass to my mouth. And choke.

She’s standing there in pajamas—thin silk the color of wine, pants flowing loose, a cami clinging tighter. Her nipples are hard beneath the fabric, her breasts practically on stage, and I’ve got the front-row seat to a show for one.

Smirking, the little minx did this on purpose. It’s attempted homicide, trying to kill me.

And I’d fucking let her. Little killer.

She walks toward me, breasts bouncing freely without a bra, and drops into her oversized armchair like she owns the room—and me.

I sink into the couch, forcing my muscles to stay loose, and hand her the glass I already poured.

“Killian, this is…” Her words die as her eyes widen, taking in the spread on the table.

The caviar service catches her first—Osetra and Beluga presented in silver pedestal dishes set on ice, surrounded by all the fixings. Buckwheat blinis, toasted brioche points, crème fra?che, chopped egg yolk and whites, lemon wedges. Mother-of-pearl spoons catching the firelight.

Her whole face softens. “It’s perfect.”

Her eyes find mine, bright and grateful, and for a second I can’t look away.

“Thank you.” Then she tips her head, teasing to ease the weight of it. “Are you sure you aren’t my stalker?”

I scoff as she helps herself to the caviar. “Pretty sure I’m a tad larger than Elijah. If he matches your stalker’s build, I don’t think you’d confuse us in a lineup.”

She laughs softly, but I watch the way she relaxes as I sit here, how her shoulders loosen, her breaths come easier. I know what she feels when I’m close. Safe. Untouchable.

The same way she exhaled when I slid into the back of the limo tonight. The same way her gaze lingered on me when I rolled my sleeves up, thinking I wouldn’t notice.

Oh, I noticed.

And yeah—that was for her.

We eat. We talk.

Mostly, we make fun of Elijah.

The spread’s simple but elegant, exactly what I knew she’d want after a failed dinner.

Truffle-mushroom risotto—velvety, indulgent but not heavy.

Seared scallops with champagne beurre blanc—her kind of refined, delicate bite.

And for later, a pistachio crème br?lée with a caramel crust begging to be cracked.

Every time she leans forward, that flimsy little cami threatens to give me a full show.

She props her elbows on her knees, pushes her arms together, practically serving her cleavage on a silver platter.

It’s all I can do not to keep my eyes glued to her chest the entire time. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Halfway through the scallops, her robe slips from one shoulder. My fork stalls halfway to my mouth.

And suddenly I’m gone—lost in a vision of dragging her into my lap, that robe falling away, the thin straps of her cami sliding down her arms. Her breasts bared. My mouth closing around one of those stiff peaks, tongue swirling until her head tilts back and she moans, grinding against me?—

“Is Killian still in the building?”

Her voice slices through the fantasy.

I blink, cock aching hard against the zipper of my pants.

She’s smirking. Teasing. “I asked—what will the profile do to help catch the stalker?”

I clear my throat, forcing my voice steady. “It’ll flag any Ledger clients who fit. We’ll vet every one of them. Make sure none of your suitors match.”

She nods, moving on to dessert. And I almost lose it all over again.

The way she dips her spoon into the crème br?lée, slides it past her lips, eyes fluttering shut as she hums. A soft, sultry sound that lands straight in my gut. My fantasy brought to life, and it kills me.

I need out of this moment, before I do something that burns us both.

“Sadly,” I say lightly, beginning to clear the empty dishes, “Elijah would match the profile now. So no second date. Shame about the paragliding—I know how much you were looking forward to it. Will you be okay, Sera-fine-as-hel?”

Her gasp is sharp, scandalized. “How dare you?”

Then her eyes narrow, dangerous. She plucks up the tiny caviar spoon, brandishing it like a dagger.

“I’m pretty sure I could kill you with this,” she says sweetly. “How macho would that be? Irish giant bludgeoned to death by mother-of-pearl spoon.”

I grin despite myself while she grabs some dishes too.

I catch her eye as she brushes past me. “I think you just wanted an excuse to get your hands on me.” My voice is low in her ear, and I swear I see her shiver.

“Not in this life,” she fires back, chin tipped up.

We split, each heading to our rooms.

And just before my door closes, I call out down the hall: “Good night, Fi-Fi.”

Her gasp echoes, followed by a muttered curse.

I can’t help but laugh.