Page 15 of Forged

“How often do you play at the game?” he asks.

Ah, there it is. The easy way to see me again without admitting he wants to. I’ll play this game.

I stretch, letting the sheet slide low to expose my breasts, just to keep his attention exactly where I want it. “Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”

His gaze drags over me—slow and hungry. “I’ll see you Friday,” he says.

His response isn’t a question, but I hope it’s a promise. Before I can even tease him for it, he bends, cups my jaw, and kisses me.

It’s softer than last night, slower, but no less devastating. A single press of lips that feels like he’s claiming something he has nodamn right to. I exhale into it, fingers curling in the sheets until his warmth leaves me.

“Have a good day, Bella. Coffee and breakfast will be delivered soon. None of that hotel swill, proper coffee.”

“How do you know I like coffee?” My brow knits, teasing.

“Just a hunch.” He brushes his lips to my cheek one more time. “Goodbye, Neomi.”

Then he straightens, grabs his keys from the dresser, and heads for the door.

The latch clicks and silence follows. I flop back onto the bed, stare at the ceiling, and exhale one long, dangerous breath.

What. The. Hell.

I have set, polished rules. I don’t sleep with men I meet at poker tables. I don’t fall asleep in someone’s arms. I don’t let someone leave me wanting more.

And yet, my pulse won’t slow. Lars is a problem. A gorgeous, orgasm-delivering problem.

I lockthe door of my condo behind me and pause against the door, letting the quiet settle.

My body remembers her in flashes. A bite at my neck. Nails down my back. The pressure of her legs locking me in place like she needed to keep me there. I roll my shoulders once, grounding myself, then head for the kitchen.

I need coffee. I need to fall back on the routine that makes sense. Start the coffee, check messages, open my laptop. Tasks that provide normalcy.

Our placement captain who handles relocations and trips always makes sure anywhere I stay has two things: the pillows I like and a proper coffee machine. I hunt through the pantry for beans and filters. I load the maker, hit the button. While it brews, I catch my reflection in the microwave door. I look like I didn’t get much sleep, which is accurate—but it’s the mark on my neck that pulls my focus. Faint but unmistakable. Red and purple bruises are just below my collar.

Fuck, she marked me.

I drag my fingers over it and feel my pulse jump. I mutter acurse and turn away as my phone lights up on the counter. A FaceTime from Violette. No chance. I decline and call her back on audio, because I’m not letting her see my current state.

She answers on the first ring. “Hey, Aunt Vi.”

“Oh, good,” she says. “You’re alive. I was starting to assume you were ignoring me.”

“I’ve only been gone for twenty-four hours.”

“And you’re already screening my calls. That didn’t take long.”

“I called you right back,” I argue.

“Audio, no video,” she points out. “Suspicious.”

“Violette—”

“Let me see your face.”

“No.”

“Lars,” she scolds.