Page 135 of Lethal King

How delicious would it be if that’s how we trapped him?

I can’t help but bite down on the inside of my lip. The slightest pressure appears in my core. I’m past caring about whether it’s my hormones acting up or not. I’m horny, so be it.

“Nice digs,” I say, giving Rian a subtle side-eye.

For a man who can be so dirty, he sure looks stiff right now.

I like it. If I can make him half as uncomfortable as I am with this collar on, then I’ll consider it a small victory.

“I’m so glad you like, beautiful,” Flavian smiles. “But it looks so much better now that you’re here.”

“Easy there, Romeo,” Rian warns him. “We’re not here to play with your furniture.”

“Ah yes,” Flavian acknowledges. But even as he straightens out his collar in a show of professionalism, those slippery blue eyes crawl over Rian’s body. “You’re here to buy the place, correct?”

“We’re here to make sure the place is worth buying.”

I can’t help but huff. That was the lie Rian came up with?

Pathetic.

… Even if it worked.

“I wish you’d had been able to come at a more desirable hour,” Flavian says. Stroking his chin, he looks back and forth between Rian and me—like he’s trying to decide which meal he’d prefer more. “Late afternoon isn’t exactly our hottest time slot.”

“You wouldn’t be able to tell by the music,” Rian snips.

“I like to keep a club atmosphere going around the clock,” Flavian smiles. Lifting his hand to his lips, he acts like he’s about to reveal some big secret. “Plus, all of the noise out there helps hide the sound of the fun we’re having in here.”

Rian shifts in place.

A grin washes over my lips.

“What kind of fun?” I poke, knowing that it will only make Rian even more uncomfortable.

Reaching into his pocket, Flavian pulls out a remote of his own. “Looks like mine is bigger than yours,” he teases Rian.

“Much bigger,” I agree.

Rian just rolls his eyes.

“Are we going to talk business or what?” he asks.

“I know they always say never to mix business with pleasure,” Flavian sings. “But I just can’t help myself.”

Clicking down on the remote, he turns his attention to the St. Andrew’s cross standing in the corner of the office.

Rian and I both tense up, expecting some kind of ambush.

But that betrayal never occurs.

Instead, we’re treated to a slice of Flavian Baros’ depravity.

To the sound of turning gears, the St. Andrews cross is turned around, revealing its backside.

“Fucking hell,” Rian curses.

I join him. “What the hell is that?”