Page 6 of Vicious Betrayal

Her leg hooks over my hip, and she moans.

All right. That's enough.

I force myself to pull back, hands coming to her waist and holding her still. Her eyes open dazedly, and for a second she just looks at me, catching her breath.

"Cormac—"

The way my name sounds on her lips, breathless with desire, snaps the last thread of my control over my decision-making. I shouldn't fuck this girl. I shouldn't touch her for even another second.

But I'm going to. I'm going to fuck her until my cock is sore and she can't walk, and I'm going to do it tonight.

But not here.

"If we're going any further," I say roughly, "I'm not doing it here."

She blinks. "Here as in… the office?"

"Here as in the club." I step back far enough to put some space between us, so I can think slightly better. "If this is happening, it's happening somewhere that isn't an office twenty feet from the main floor. My place, yours, a hotel… whatever you're most comfortable with, but not here."

She holds my gaze for a moment. Whatever she finds there makes something shift in her expression—not disappointment, but the opposite, actually. She looks utterly pleased with herself and me, and it does absolutely nothing to help my current situation.

"Then let's go," she says simply.

I rub my hand through my hair. God, my cock fucking aches. "It's not that simple."

She pouts at me. "Why not? You have a car?"

"A bike. But⁠—"

"Then let's go." She says it like it's already settled, like the only remaining question is logistics. She hops off the desk, already moving toward the door, and I catch her wrist.

"Oksana." I say her name flatly. "You walked in here with people. You walk out without saying anything, and they're going to⁠—"

"My friends are fine." She glances at my hand on her wrist, not trying to pull away. "They've lost me before. They'll assume I left with someone and text me in the morning."

"I'm not talking about your friends."

She goes still, the playful luster draining away for a split second. "What are you talking about?" she asks carefully, and an alarm sounds in the back of my head. She doesn't want me to know she had security here with her, and there's probably a reason for that.

But then her hand brushes against my wrist, and she turns toward me. I catch a whiff of her perfume and the salty scent of her sweat, and the alarms are silenced. Muffled, at the very least. I'm barely managing to do any thinking that doesn't involve my cock. I need to touch her. I need to be inside of her. God, I need to fucking come, with a desperation I can't recall feeling in a long time, if ever. It's going to be a miracle if I manage to hold off long enough to give her the kind of pleasure a woman like her deserves.

"There have been men watching you all night," I manage. "They're not your friends. They're security. I work security, Oksana; I know what bodyguards look like."

The part of my brain that hasn't been drowned out is wary and curious about why she has them. But she's young. Maybe she's some YouTube celebrity or content creator I don't know about, with enough money to hire her own personal security.

To my surprise, she doesn't try to bluff an answer. She exhales through her nose and looks away from me with a quick, irritated look toward the ceiling, like someone who's annoyed at a familiar inconvenience rather than surprised by it. "My father's men," she says. "He has them follow me everywhere. Every time I go out."

Another alarm pings. Who is her father that he demands she have security? A celebrity in his own right? A billionaire of some kind, a CEO? Or is he…

No. She can't be a mafia daughter. Mafia bosses don't let their daughters go to places like this. Mafia daughters are treasured assets, their virginity protected above all else, playing pieces on a board that demands they be pure in order to have worth. No boss is going to let his daughter be out in a place where men can touch and look at her at their leisure… where a man like me could be doing what we just were.

I take a breath. It feels like it gets lodged in my chest. "How old are you?" I ask slowly. The quality of bouncers I know we hired is the only reason I don't ask to see her fucking ID.

She looks at me directly, the expression on her face turning into something that dares me to tell her to leave because of the answer. "Twenty."

Twenty. Twenty fucking years old. I just turned forty. Twenty years between us of things I've done and choices I've made, marks on my body that have nothing to do with boxing. I should open that door and take her back to her friends.

"You should leave." Fuck it hurts to even say it. My muscles are wound tight, my cock throbbing, my body screaming for me to take her up against that door before she changes her mind and I end up jerking off in a club bathroom for some fucking relief.