Page 45 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

A ndreas

It takes a good ten minutes for my cock and my temper to return to normal.

I had to get her out of harm’s way. The sight of her sucking my come into her mouth undid me.

My cock was still hard and ready to go again.

If she hadn’t moved when she did, I’d have fucked her so rough, I’d have ripped her open.

I rap my knuckles on the bathroom door. “You can come out now.”

The lock clicks and the door opens slowly.

“Are you okay?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“Yeah. I am now.”

The door widens. Thankfully, she’s got dressed into a pink satin robe. It’s still saucy as fuck but at least those achingly peaked nipples and swollen clit are hidden from view.

“Did I do something wrong?”

I shake my head, my eyelids drifting closed. “You did nothing wrong. I just need to learn to control myself better around you.”

“Well,” she says, with an emerging confidence as she walks past me into the bedroom. “I loved that, Andreas, and I will want to do it again. So you better learn fast.”

My jaw falls open as she disappears into the main suite.

Well, that told me.

Twenty-four hours and another four orgasms for my wife later, we’re walking into the Cosmos Club to have dinner with some Washington officials, including my former mistake .

The dining room is dimly lit, all golden sconces and polished mahogany. It’s the kind of place where secrets echo louder than laughter, and I should know—I’ve traded most of them.

My wife looks radiant beside me in a navy silk dress, her gait precise, her carriage composed. Every day she shows me a new side of herself that I can’t help but be infatuated with, and every day she fits a little better into the life I’ve carved out for her in my world.

She holds her own at my side as we make small talk with a number of government officials, delicately steering conversation around the unfortunate and untimely death of Governor Grayson. I’m relieved when we sit down for dinner, because this is when I intend to get what I came here for.

Secretary Olsson is seated directly across the table from me.

Ignoring my wife at my side, she smiles over her wine as if this is just another political gala, not the culmination of all my work to date.

She knows I need her signature so I can crest the summit and get my plans on the road.

She thinks she’s the one in control. I’m happy to keep it that way, for now.

People do foolish things when they think they have all the power.

Olsson has the papers in front of her, tucked between a linen napkin and her bloodied steak. They outline what the press might call “the city’s newest data innovation center.” But what it will really be is a fortress, shrouded in layers of code, surveillance, veils and whispers.

Eating actual food is a mere formality. I just want ink on those papers—to make sure Olsson signs along that dotted line without hesitation.

Meaningless chatter rattles around me and it takes all my focus to remain alert and detached. But as I drift my eyes slowly around the room, I see something that makes my chest tighten with tension. Sera senses it too because she puts a hand on my arm.

I see him —near the bar, slipping into a hallway, watching from behind a random stranger like some damned ghost.

My father.

Cheap suit, eyes yellow like nicotine, just hovering like he never bled out in the Bronx. Each time I see him, I blink, and he’s gone.

Killing the old man’s right-hand must have stirred up old memories. Could it be regret that I never gave him a second chance at fatherhood? That’s a definite no. Guilt that I never gave him a proper burial? No to that too—the man didn’t deserve one.

Sera’s touch slides to my wrist, drawing my gaze to hers. Right here, this second, I wonder how I got so fucking lucky. After everything I’ve put her through, she’s here for me in every way that counts.

My eyes twitch in gratitude, imperceptible to anyone but my wife.

Then, out of nowhere, Secretary Olsson leans across the table and wipes something invisible from the side of my mouth with her thumb.

It’s an affectionate moves that shatters any modicum of respect she should have for my wife and my marriage.

Sera sees it, and though it wouldn’t be evident to the naked eye, she stiffens at my side, her blood pumping hard at her temples. She doesn’t say a word, just picks up her wine glass and takes a slow sip, her gaze fixed dead ahead.

She didn’t learn this silently violent behavior from me. It’s instinctive. She knows Olsson could die for this. It’s an act parallel to that which Grayson committed when he felt her up right in front of me. She knows all I need is Olsson’s signature. Then the Secretary is dispensable.

I excuse myself and Olsson follows me out of the room into a hall.

I sense my wife flashing a sideways glance as we leave, but she knows she has nothing to worry about.

She knows I’m entirely hers. I wouldn’t dedicate my waking hours to making her love herself, making her unravel to her core, if I wasn’t.

The second we’re alone, Olsson turns to me with a dark laugh. “I couldn’t have you blustering through dinner with food on your face.”

“There was nothing on my face. I’ve hardly eaten anything.”

“Come on, Andreas,” she whines, rolling her eyes. “What happened to us being ‘old friends?’”

I shrug. “It’s how I refer to our relationship when I don’t want to explain the technicalities. It would help if you had some respect for my wife.”

“What can I say?” She drops her gaze and peers up at me with a poor attempt at innocence. “I miss the physical contact.”

“It was inappropriate and you know it.”

“Well, I didn’t take you for the moralistic type, Mr. Corioni.”

I glare at her, unmoved. “I’m surprised you took me for a ‘type’ at all.”

She shrugs with the nonchalance of a woman who is used to playing with weak, compromising men. Her eyes narrow. “I don’t have to sign anything, you know. Maybe Boston doesn’t need your little empire.”

I step into her cold, frigid orbit. “Secretary Olsson, let me make something clear. I don’t need your approval, and I don’t beg.

You want to play games, I can dig up everything you've tried to keep buried—your brother’s defense contracts, your backchannel investments in data encryption firms, even the intern who went missing and turned up in the Potomac three years ago.

You sign those papers. You smile while you do it.

And you keep your wandering hands to yourself. ”

Her breath catches, just slightly, but enough.

I take a step back and run a hand down my tie. “You don’t want a war with me, Secretary. You want a legacy. Sign those papers and you’ll have one.”

Her throat bobs with a swallow and I leave her to contemplate that while I walk back to my table and sit beside the only person in the room I don’t have to lie to.

She doesn’t ask what just happened, or what was said. She simply smiles and reaches for her wine glass again. She knows what we came for and what we’re leaving with.

Hearts light and full, fingers tingling with want, and a city that is already ours.