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"I want to suck your cock." And down she goes, right there on the carpet where the lawyer was sitting minutes ago. A thousand dollars an hour, that man, and he's never once made me forget every language I speak, including the one I use to threaten people in.

All those years of fantasizing brought me nothing close to the reality of her. Because the real thing is the formidable Manon Novak on her knees, pulling my belt free like she's disarming me, which, to be honest, she is.

She takes me out and holds me in her fist, hunger and disbelief fighting for space on her face. Hard and heavy in her hand, my cock is close enough to her mouth that I can feel her breath on it.

Her eyes catch a fresh cut on my hand. I caught it with the razor and didn’t take care of it right away as I was pressed for time. Her breath changes, and it isn't fear. She drags her thumb over the tiny wound like she's checking whether it's real. "You’ve hurt—" She stops, then pivots. "I've been thinking about this cock all morning." She drags her fist up the length of me, slowly, like she's got all day. "Through my entire shower.

“I want you to fuck my throat until my eyes water, and I want you to watch me take it."

This woman is getting bolder by the day. I’m not sure if it’s what happened, or the fact that she’s denied us so much playtime with her manufactured meanness toward me. Either way, she definitely doesn't sound like the saint she plays for everyone else. But I've seen underneath all that once already, on a garage floor next to a dead man. Whatever this is, it isn't new. She's just not fighting it as hard.

Saint Manon the Gruesome… Manon la macabre…

I half-chuckle at that, then say, "Manon." I mean it to come out as a warning, but it sounds more like a prayer. Fantastic. Years of being the most feared man among the syndicates in this city, undone by my own wife before she's even put her mouth on me. "Careful. I had plans for you, and they all required lasting longer than nine seconds."

Then she licks me from root to crown, slowly, eyes open, and I stop breathing.

Her mouth swallows me and it's over. My composure, my plans, my reputation, all of it lost into the wet heat of her. She takes me to the back of her throat and my hips buckle. I groan loudly, enough to be heard across the entire building, and I couldn't care less. I’ve yearned for this, and now that I have it I'm hanging on by my fingernails, one hand fisted in her hair, thighs shaking, so close so fast it's humiliating.

"You need to stop." She doesn't stop. "Manon. Ma macabre. I will pay you to stop."

She laughs around my cock. The vibration nearly finishes me on the spot. I want to impress my wife with how long I can last, but if she doesn't quit this in the next few seconds, the whole image falls to pieces.

"Look at you," I rasp. "One garage floor and then six months of locked doors, ma macabre. Six months of you pretending you didn't want this. And now you're on your knees in my boardroom with your mouth full of my cock and a room full of people next door. You couldn't even wait for a bed."

She hums around me. That's her answer. The vibration goes up my spine like a struck bell.

I wrap her hair twice around my hand. I won't fuck her face, not now; I'm already on the edge, but I let her set the pace. Slow. Deep.

"You wanted details earlier on," I manage to rasp, watching her lips stretch around me, watching her wet lashes lift so she can look at me while she takes it all the way to the back of her throat. Fuck. I'm sweating through my shirt with the sheer effort, praying to God to let me last. "Barged into my meeting demanding to know how I did it. Rude of you, by the way."

She pulls off with a dirty wet sound, fist still working me, and looks up with those wrecked, glassy eyes.

"Then give me the details." Her thumb drags over the head of me and I twitch in her hand. "Tell me what you were going to do to him. The yacht man. Everything you had planned and didn't do because you wouldn't leave my side. And don't you dare leave anything out."

Then she puts my cock back in her mouth.

So my wife wants a bedtime story. God, I have never loved anyone the way I love this deranged woman.

"You made me promise to sit there and do nothing, in the restaurant." My fist tightens in her hair. "So I did. And while you drank your wine, I put the plan together. I wrote it down, the whole thing."

A whimper.

“You never noticed, I know. I’m good at discretion.”

She moans around me and I nearly white out.

"The hand was first, the one he put on your neck. Not off. Off is fast, and I wasn't in a hurry. There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand, ma macabre, and I wanted every one of them introduced to him. Slowly." Her tongue does something illegal and I get a bit distracted. "Then his tongue. He was so proud of it. Then his throat—he liked throats, remember? He offered to open yours. That debt needed settling."

Her free hand slides between her thighs. My wife is touching herself to this. Fucking hell, I nearly go blind.

"And the yacht." I drag her mouth down my cock, hold her there—one, two, three—and let her up, gasping. "He told the whole restaurant where he kept it. Practically drew me a map."

"God." Her voice is ruined. Her hand is moving faster. "And then?"

"And then nothing. I'd promised my wife a quiet evening." I tip her chin up with one finger, my cock resting against her cheek, obscene and glistening. "So I gave the whole design to Constantine at the table, and explained in detail how to do every cut, the pace, etcetera… and I smiled at you the entire time. Rafe and Tomek did the work quite adequately. I've seen the photographs." My jaw tightens. "It wasn't craftsmanship. You cost that man a work of art, ma macabre, and you cost me a very relaxing night." I pull her up off her knees by the hair, and she comes up flushed and swaying, mouth swollen, eyes black. "And now you're going to settle the bill."

"How much do I owe?"