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“What are you doing?”
“Indulging a fantasy.” I lock the door behind us and then stalk Scarlett backward down the room.
She giggles nervously as she backs away, watching me closely. “I feel like I’m being hunted down.”
“You are.” And then I pounce, grabbing her and swinging her into a kiss before she can get away. She lets me do it, I know, because Scarlett’s instincts are much more finely honed than she’s pretending. But it’s part of the fun to pretend to be the predator, and this is the best bit anyway—my mouth on hers.
Well. It’s one of the best bits.
I crowd her backward again until her butt hits the table, right where I usually sit. “What are you doing?” she giggles again, as I insistently push her until she lays out on the table.
“Making a few memories so next time the meeting gets boring, I’ll have something to think about.” I slide up her skirt. “You want me to stop?”
She inhales sharply as I slide my hand up her thigh, and her only response is a shaky “No.” I gently nudge her legs apart, my eyes taking in her black lace panties with appreciation.
“Good girl,” I purr, and I gently graze my fingers over the delicate fabric. Scarlett squirms beneath me, hazel eyes clouding over with desire.
“Lyssa...we really shouldn’t...” she breathes out, even as she cants her hips up so I can slide down her underwear.
“Trust me, Scar, no one’s going to miss us for a few minutes,” I say, planting a trail of kisses down her neck as I work my way to her breasts, which are now peeking out from her dress, thanks to my nimble fingers. God, I love how responsive she is. “Besides, we both know you want this.” I pull my chair close up, take a comfortable seat, and press my lips to her already-glistening folds.
“Lyssa...we...should...oh, God, okay, fine.” Scarlett’s protests dissolve into moans as I let my tongue delve into her, my hands gripping her hips. Scarlett’s legs wrap around my shoulders, her nails scraping along the wooden tabletop, and I know she’s enjoying it as much as I am. There’s something undeniably erotic about this power play, with me in charge and her yielding to me.
I go back to lazily exploring her, teasing her clit in slow circles before dipping my tongue back into her wet heat. Scarlett moans louder, her body arching off the table, and that just spurs me on more. I want to hear more of those sexy sounds spilling from her mouth, feel her thighs trembling around my head as she comes undone for me.
Scarlett’s panting breaths and the wet, wanton sounds of her need echo off the still-undecorated walls of the war room, creating an erotic symphony that I could listen to for hours. I glance up at her flushed face, her eyes squeezed shut as she concentrates on the sensations, lips parted in a silent moan.
It’s an image I’ll never tire of—and an image I’ll never, ever forget. I meant what I said: next time I get tired of hearing the Syndicate bicker during a meeting, I’ll return to here and now, let my mind replay this interlude, and nod along automatically with whatever Hadria says.
Scarlett’s breath hitches as her orgasm draws nearer. I don’t relent, intensifying the pressure of my tongue, determined to send her over the edge. Her thighs squeeze around my ears, her body tensing up before a soft cry escapes her lips, and her juices flood my mouth as she comes hard for me.
I slowly straighten up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Scarlett collapses back on the table, catching her breath. “God, Lyssa,” she pants, “we really should stop doing this in public places.”
“Public places? This is our home now,” I tease, gently caressing her damp thighs. “But I guess we really should get back downstairs.”
We tidy up—a little, anyway—but I grab her back just before we exit the room, and kiss her again for good measure.
“Love you, Scar,” I tell her, looking deep into those forest pools again.
“Love you, too,” she says. “My big, bad Wolf.”
Epilogue
LYSSA
The reception in the mansion’s ballroom is in full swing. Servers in crisp black and white attire are circulating with trays of champagne and whiskey-spiked punch while a sumptuous buffet is laid out. After we eat a little and drink maybe more than we should, I make my way toward the cluster of New Yorkers with Scarlett on my arm, intent on getting a read on the Bianchi Boss.
Johnny de Luca is standing with her and actually motions us over, a strange expression on his face.
“Hello, Johnny,” I greet him.
“Lyssa. This is Juno Bianchi.”
“Lyssa Fletcher,” I substitute, reaching out a hand to take Juno’s.
She takes me in with sharp, assessing eyes. “Lyssa Fletcher—ah, the Wolf. Yes. I’ve heard a great deal about you.” Her gaze flits to Scarlett. “And this is?—?”
“This is Scarlett Fletcher.” I draw Scarlett closer with a hand at the small of her back. “My partner in every sense of the word.”
