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Sure, the sex was fucking epic. Being dirty with my Amara like a man possessed while Killian watched was the best sex of my life.
But it didn’t stop there. When I bathed Amara, I wished Killian were there with us. She deserved his strong, caring touch for being such a good girl. I wanted him to lather shampoo in my hair. The three of us could’ve—Christ, what’s come over me?—cuddled.
I didn’t articulate any of this.
See, I don’t pray for what’s out of my reach. I don’t lament. I don’t grow attached.
Hence, why it’s basically therapy, sitting here, soaking up these fuckers’ rage.
Chaos. Madness. Violence.
That I can do.
“I specifically told you to be there at nine p.m. sharp.” The vein on Razor’s temple throbs. His bald head shines bright red, more crimson than the red lights in our conference room. “On. The. Dot.”
He’ll probably be mad if I snapped a picture of him. If I laughed. I pull my lips in, taking a mental picture instead. One can never have enough entertainment on demand.
“Wanna know why?” Razor’s fingers grip the arms of the chair. His muscles threaten to tear his charcoal gray suit.
The asshole gets off on pretending he’s a legit businessman just because he runs in the right circles. Because he sells “rich people” drugs.
Oh, fucking well.
I’m not here to pass judgment. Don’t care for it, either. I’m here to watch and fix their issues.
Right after I’ve had my fill of this distracting chaos.
I relax into my executive chair, crossing my arms over my chest. Too bad it’s this early in the morning. Otherwise, I would’ve asked the hotel staff for popcorn.
“Why?” Willis pinches his lips, feigning courage.
By the way he’s twisting his gray polo shirt beneath the table, I know better. He’s losing his nerve.
I’m here to protect him, but Razor is a psycho. Before he showed up, Willis gave me a recap of what he had to pick up off the floor last night. A guy’s broken teeth and a discarded eyeball. For poaching Razor’s clients.
It didn’t intimidate me. Just gave me another reason to hide my soft spot from him and everyone else.
Except my Amara.
“Well?” Willis gives his false bravado another shot. The hint of quiver in his voice whips my attention back to them. “Are you going to sit there and stare all day?”
Willis huffs. Razor growls. Nothing they have on Netflix could ever top this shit right here.
“My wife.” Razor leans forward, placing his forearms on the table. “It was my in-laws’ golden motherfucking anniversary. With traffic and you breaching our agreement, I was late.”
He doesn’t have to say another word. The second growl he lets out makes it pretty fucking clear. His wife—his real boss—gave him hell for this.
Good on her.
They continue to yammer on. Traffic, schedule, being respectful. Whatever.
I lose interest.
They’re still angry. Still entertaining. But my eyes hone in on the porcelain vase with the white lilies in the middle of the conference table. Amara.
Never in a million years would I have imagined she’d be like this. That she’d be begging for both Killian and me. The adorable little flower girl I ran into six months ago has such a dirty mind.
“Excuse me, I’m new here.” A woman whose face was hidden by two giant lily arrangements approached me. Practically bumped into me. “Can you tell me where they’d like me to put these? I can’t find anyone”— she giggled—“more like, can’t see anyone behind these.”
