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She opens and closes her mouth.
She meant that but doesn’t want to admit she meant that.
A place like this is too classy for me. Rich people don’t make good protectors. The poor, the rough and tumble types? Yeah, those guys make good bodyguards.
Apparently, a suit can’t mask my status. I look like trash to them, no matter how fine the fabric. Which is fine. I’m not interested in rising to their status level or playing by the rules that dominate their world.
Theodora’s big eyes motion to the right, toward the bathroom. Interesting how she wants to sleep with someone as classless as me.
“I’m working,” I tell her.
She glances around the restaurant, trying to pick out my mark. She twists fake blonde hair between her fingers, and her eyes come to rest on me. “Take a break?”
Am I tempted? Yeah. Really fucking tempted. Especially as she uncrosses her long legs and gives me a glimpse of her lack of panties.
I look at the watch on my wrist and catch Isabella in my peripheral. A waiter has just delivered their meals. She should be busy for a little while.
I’ll give myself ten minutes.
One single break.
Without saying anything, I get up and walk toward the bathrooms tucked away from the main floor. I go into one of the rooms and wait. It’d be classless for her to come in here, but I’ll give her one minute.
Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.
She sneaks into the bathroom with me, and I close the door and twist the lock. Before I even get my hand off the metal, she’s on me. Her rosy lipstick smears across my lips as she kisses me.
“I’ve always wanted a way to thank you for all you did for me,” she says against my mouth.
“No need to thank me, Theodora. It was just my job.” I made sure her husband knew she was serious about the divorce. Really hammered the point into him.
Her hands work open my belt buckle regardless, and her fingers fly into a frenzy as she unzips my slacks. I look at my watch. Eight minutes.
I lean against the wall as her hands reveal my dick with an aggression that’s very clearly stifled. She strokes me with long, dedicated movements, her eyes on my face.
Guilt flushes through my veins, and I push her hand away. “I can’t do this. I have to go back to work.”
She scoffs and wipes her hand against her dress. “Well, this is embarrassing,” she says, wiping the lipstick from around her mouth and stepping away from me.
“It’s not you, and you know that,” I say. I throw her a wink. “You know how seriously I take my job.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She twists the lock and barges out of the bathroom.
I tug up my slacks and go to the mirror. Smeared lipstick circles my mouth. I wipe at the rouge marks until my skin is pretty much the same color the lipstick once was. Satisfied enough, I return to the dining area. When I look at the table where Isabella sat, the food sits abandoned.
“Fuck.” This is why I don’t take fucking breaks.
I walk to their table and snag the waiter, dragging him aside. “Did you see where those two headed off?” I gesture between the two empty chairs.
He tosses his chin toward the exit before hurrying away from me.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
This is the one gig that will cost my life if I fail. I hurry out the door and my eyes scan left and right, trying to find my bearings while also not boiling over with panic.
The Italian restaurant is part of a strip of businesses and restaurants. One building runs into the next...except for the alleyway on the one side that leads to the parking lot.
I break into a jog when I reach the alley, and my eyes narrow on the back of her BMW. Fog creeps up the glass. The breath of relief is followed by one of panic, and I rush to her car and whip open her back door. She’s grinding on the man’s lap. I stop her mid kiss, and her gaze rises to me with a hint of disgusting playfulness.
