Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Mack gives him a once-over that could strip paint. “Yeah. Set up in the bedroom. I’ll be right outside the door.”
Matteo’s smile is polite, professional. “Of course. Privacy is priority.”
I catch the way Mack’s jaw ticks as Matteo steps past him into the suite. Interesting.
I step into the bathroom, slipping into the fluffy white towel the hotel provided. I step into the bedroom and climb onto the table face-down, cheek resting on my folded arms, and let the towel fall away to drape loosely over my hips. Standard protocol. Nothing scandalous.
Mack positions himself just inside the doorway—close enough to hear everything, far enough to pretend he’s giving me space. His arms are crossed, eyes fixed on the far wall like the abstract painting there is suddenly fascinating.
Matteo warms oil between his palms. “Ready, Ms. Lyric?”
“Indigo,” I correct softly. “And yes. Please.”
His hands land on my shoulders—warm, strong, competent. He starts at the base of my neck, thumbs digging into the knots that have lived there since the break-in, since the note, since the necklace in my dressing room. I exhale long and slow, letting the pressure melt some of the terror I’ve been carrying like a second skin. I won’t admit out loud how scared I am. Not to Etta, not to the cops, definitely not to Mack.
But God, it feels good to be touched without fear.
I crack one eye open. Mack is still staring at that painting, but his posture has changed—shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides. Every time Matteo’s hands glide down my spine, Mack’s gaze flicks over. Quick. Guilty. Hungry.
I can’t resist.
“Jealous?” I murmur, voice muffled against my arms.
“Of what?” His growl is low enough that Matteo probably doesn’t catch it.
“His hands on me.”
Mack shifts his weight. “Professional.”
“Liar,” I taunt, smiling into the table.
Matteo works lower, kneading the small of my back with slow, deliberate circles. The oil smells like cedar and something faintly citrusy. My muscles loosen, but the tension in the room ratchets higher.
Mack makes a sound—barely audible, but I hear it. Something between a grunt and a curse.
Matteo’s hands pause for half a second. “Everything okay, Indigo?”
“Perfect,” I purr. “Keep going.”
But before he can continue, Mack’s stepping closer.
“We’re done here,” he says.
I push myself to sitting, towel slipping just enough to bare the curve of my hip and the side of one breast before I catch it. I don’t bother fixing it fully. Let him look.
Mack’s gaze snaps to me like a magnet.
Matteo blinks. “I—sorry?”
“I said we’re done.” Mack’s voice is flat steel. “Thanks for coming. I’ll walk you out.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence. Matteo glances at me, then back at Mack. He’s not stupid. He reads the room in about two seconds flat.
“Right,” he says carefully. “I’ll just… grab my table.”
“Leave it,” Mack states.
Matteo blinks again. “Uh… okay.”
Then Mack escorts him to the suite door like he’s escorting a suspect. The lock clicks behind them.
When Mack comes back, the air feels thicker. Charged.
I’m still sitting on the table, towel barely clinging, legs dangling over the edge. “That was rude.”
“He was done,” Mack says. He’s closer now, close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. “You needed more work on your shoulders anyway.”
“Oh?” I tilt my head. “You offering?”
He doesn’t answer with words. He steps between my knees, hands finding my waist—warm, rough, possessive. “Lie back down.”
My pulse kicks hard. I do what he says, slowly, towel sliding away completely as I settle face-down again. Naked. Exposed. Trusting him with every inch.
His hands are different from Matteo’s. Bigger. Calloused from years of whatever life he lived before Heartline Security. He starts at my neck, thumbs pressing deep, working out the same knots Matteo found but with twice the intensity. Like he’s claiming territory.
I moan—quiet, involuntary.
He freezes for a second. Then his hands slide lower, palms flat against my spine, gliding down in long, slow strokes. Oil slicks the way. Heat follows.
“You’re tense,” he mutters, voice gravel.
“Wonder why.”
His thumbs dig into the dimples above my ass. “Because you like pushing me.”
“Maybe.” I arch just enough to press back into his touch. “Maybe I like seeing how far I can push before you snap.”
He leans over me, chest brushing my back, mouth close to my ear. “Careful, Indigo.”
“Or what?”
His hand slides up my side, skimming the curve of my breast, thumb grazing the underside. Not quite touching where I want him most. Teasing. Torturing.
“Or I stop being polite,” he says.
I turn my head, catching his eyes. They’re dark, stormy, pupils blown. “Who said I want polite?”
His eyes blaze like pure fire igniting deep within. The tension builds as he stares at me. He steps closer, and my breath hitches. Before he can act on anything his phone buzzes with a text. He slides his finger over the screen, looking at it. "Derek's on the move. Toward Gilded Hart." He pulls back. Again. "Duty calls."