Chapter 164
The drive back was silent, but the air in the Cadillac was heavy with the ghost of what we’d done. When we finally pulled up to the curb in front of my apartment, the engine’s idle was the only sound between us.
Abigail gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white, her eyes fixed straight ahead. The "Black Widow" mask was back on, but it was cracked. Her hair was messy, her lipstick was gone, and she looked like a woman who had just survived a crash.
"No one knows about this," she said, her voice a sharp, brittle blade. She finally looked at me, her gaze hard. "This was a mistake, Druski. A one-time lapse in judgment because I was... stressed. It never happens again. We go back to being what we were."
I leaned back against the leather seat, a slow, knowing grin spreading across my face. I looked at the slight flush still creeping up her neck—the mark of a woman who had been thoroughly undone.
"Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep tonight, Abby," I said, my voice smooth as silk. "It was just a ’mistake.’ Totally forgotten."
She narrowed her eyes, sensing the challenge. "I mean it. If I see even a hint of a smirk when we’re with Monet, I’ll finish what I started in that warehouse."
"Of course," I said, opening the door and stepping out into the crisp morning air. I leaned back in, catching her gaze one last time. "But we both know the truth. You didn’t just break a rule tonight; you found out what you’ve been missing. I’ll see you at the studio, Abigail."
I didn’t wait for her to snap back. I turned and walked toward the lobby, hearing the Cadillac roar as she floored it, disappearing into the city traffic.
I took the elevator up, the silence of the building a stark contrast to the chaos of the night. As I let myself into my apartment and tossed my keys on the counter, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. I looked tired, wired, and dangerous.
I’d walked into that warehouse a target and walked out with the Queen’s most loyal knight in my pocket. Abigail might believe it was a one-time thing, but I knew better. Once you give a woman like that a taste of the fire, she doesn’t go back to the cold.
I pushed the door open, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the quiet of the morning. I expected an empty room, but Sasha was there, perched on the edge of the bed. She was bathed in the grey, filtered light of the blinds, watching me with a heavy, disturbing silence that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I froze for a heartbeat. I still had the phantom weight of Abigail’s legs around my waist, the scent of her perfume clinging to my skin like a second shadow. I wondered if Sasha could smell the betrayal, or if she simply knew me well enough to see the ghost of another woman in my eyes.
Then, her cold expression shattered, melting into a slow, predatory curve of her lips.
"Perfect timing," she murmured, her voice like velvet dragged over gravel.
"Huh?" I managed, my brain still recalibrating from the high-speed chase of the last few hours. "What are you doing up?"
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached to the side and picked up a sleek, black dildo from the rumpled sheets beside her. She ran a thumb over the tip, her eyes never leaving mine.
"I was starting to get bored waiting for you," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "I thought I’d have to settle for pleasing myself with this. But let’s be honest... it’s a cold, plastic substitute compared to the real thing."
She tossed the toy aside, and it landed with a dull thud on the carpet. She stood up, the silk of her nightgown clinging to her curves, and started walking toward me.
"You look exhausted, Druski," she whispered, reaching up to straighten my collar, her fingers lingering near the skin of my neck. "You look like you’ve been working... very hard. Why don’t you show me exactly what’s left in the tank?"
I stayed calm, hiding the sudden spike of adrenaline beneath a mask of weary professionalism. Sasha was sharp—sharper than most gave her credit for—and the last thing I needed was her catching the scent of Abigail’s perfume or seeing a stray blonde hair on my shoulder.
"It’s been a hell of a night, Sasha," I said, letting out a heavy, controlled sigh. I reached out and caught her hand, giving it a gentle, firm squeeze before she could get too close. "Monet’s been running me ragged with the last-minute logistics for the launch. Dealing with her mess is a full-time job."
She tilted her head, her eyes searching mine, looking for the lie. "You look like you’ve been through a war," she whispered.
"I feel like it," I replied, stepping past her toward the bathroom. "Give me ten minutes in the shower to wash the city off my skin. I want to be fresh when I finally get my hands on you. I don’t want to bring the stress of the streets into this bed."
She pouted slightly, but the logic held. "Ten minutes, Druski. If you aren’t out by then, I’m coming in to fetch you."
"I’m counting on it," I said with a wink, closing the bathroom door and leaning against it as soon as the latch clicked.
I turned the water on high, letting the steam fill the room. I stripped off my clothes and stepped under the spray, scrubbing every inch of my skin with a ferocity that had nothing to do with hygiene and everything to do with survival. I watched the traces of the night—the sweat, the scent, the evidence of my time in the Cadillac—swirl down the drain.
I stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom with a towel slung low on my hips, the adrenaline of the cover-up still humming in my veins. When I entered the bedroom, the sight of Sasha stopped me in my tracks.
She was sprawled across the charcoal silk sheets, her body a masterpiece of curves and honeyed skin. She was completely naked, her long hair fanned out against the pillows like a dark halo. The morning sun peeking through the blinds striped her body in light and shadow, highlighting the swell of her hips and the lean taper of her waist.
As our eyes met, she didn’t move to cover herself. Instead, she arched her back, a slow, predatory stretch that made her breasts firm up, the nipples dark and tight. She reached up, cupping them in her palms and squeezing them together, watching the way the pale flesh swelled between her fingers.
"You took your time," she whispered, her voice a low, vibrating purr.
She kept her gaze locked on mine as one hand slid down the flat plane of her stomach, disappearing into the dark silk between her thighs. I watched, mesmerized, as she began to touch herself—slow, rhythmic circles that made her hips tilt upward in a silent plea. Her breathing hitched, her lips parting as she teased herself, the slick, wet sound of her arousal filling the quiet room.
She looked like a goddess of pure temptation, her skin flushed with a rising heat that I knew had nothing to do with the morning sun. My body reacted instantly; despite the exhaustion of the night, the sight of her devouring me with her eyes made my blood roar back to life.
She stopped her hand for a moment, her fingers glistening, and then she crooked one finger toward me in a slow, silent invitation.
"Come here, Druski," she breathed. "Show me if you’re as dangerous as you look."
I dropped the towel, but I didn’t climb into the sheets just yet. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on one hand, and simply watched her. The sight was intoxicating—the contrast of the dark silk against her glowing skin, the way her chest heaved with every shallow, needy breath.
"I think I like watching you do that," I said, my voice low and rasping. "Don’t stop yet, Sasha. I want to see exactly how much you missed me."
Her eyes darkened, a flash of frustration and desire crossing her face. She groaned, a low sound of pure want, as she increased the pace of her hand. Her fingers worked with a frantic, slick rhythm, and she squeezed her breasts harder, the friction turning the tips a deep, aching crimson. She looked completely undone, her back arching off the mattress as she chased the climax I was withholding.
"You’re a cruel man, Druski," she gasped, her hips bucking against her own hand. "Look at me... I’m shaking. Come here and finish this."
"Not yet," I murmured, my gaze tracing the way her muscles tensed and relaxed. "A few more minutes. Show me how much you want it."
She let out a sharp, jagged cry, her head thrashing back against the pillows. She was so close, her body vibrating with the effort of holding back, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat that made her shimmer in the morning light. The sight of her—raw, exposed, and desperate for my touch—was the ultimate ego boost. It was the perfect palate cleanser after the life-or-death tension with Abigail.
Finally, when she looked like she was about to snap, she reached out and grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin.
"Now," she commanded, her voice breaking. "Unless you want me to scream and wake the whole building."