Chapter 4
Four
VIOLET
I’d love to lie here and relive every second of the best sex of my life, but I can’t because now the guilt is setting in.
Yes, in theory, it’s okay to do something for myself, but I’m supposed to be finding my sister, not having earth-shattering sex.
I need to do something that might help me find her.
I scramble up and rush over to where my bag landed in a deep black leather chair, and rifle through the contents until I find what I’m looking for. Palming the little plastic bag, I rush back to the bed and climb under the covers.
I can hear him coming down the hall, and I try to steady my breathing.
He’s still gloriously naked, and I don’t bother to hide my perusal of his impressive form.
He’s strong, and the word muscular really does him a disservice because he’s .
. . muscular. His abs should have songs written about them.
That deep V in his hips that leads to his gorgeous dick is what spicy dreams are made of.
And that piercing? Well, if this were a different universe, it could be my new best friend.
“Keep eating me with your eyes like that, and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I accept the glass of water and take a sip, eyeing him. “Fuck me again? You already promised to do that.”
His lips twitch as he sips his whiskey—I assume that’s what the brown liquid is—and then he sets it on the bedside table.
“I don’t usually like a smart mouth,” he admits.
“I don’t usually like bossy men,” I counter and offer him a sweet smile that has him laughing and shaking his head.
“Are you okay?” He asks me.
“A little messy, but otherwise I’m great.”
His brows pinch together in a frown, and then he turns to stride into the bathroom, and I jump into action.
I open the little bag in my hand and pour some of the powder in his drink.
How much am I supposed to give him? I don’t want to fuck him up, he just needs to sleep for a bit.
After pouring half the contents, I give the whiskey a little stir with my finger and consciously do not lick it clean.
I don’t need to pass out with him.
He returns milliseconds later with a washcloth in his hand. “Sorry for the wait, I had to let the water warm up. Spread your pretty legs, Savage.”
I reach for the cloth, but he holds it up where I can’t grab it.
“I’ll do it,” I tell him.
“I will do it. It’s my mess.”
With a laugh, I shake my head and grab the cloth out of his hand. “Drink your whiskey while I do this. I like your place. It suits you.”
He lifts his glass and gulps the rest of his drink before setting the glass aside. “What does that mean?”
“It’s rich, masculine.” His lips twitch. “A little intimidating.”
“Do I intimidate you?”
I’ve finished with the cloth, so he takes it and tosses it over his shoulder, then urges me onto my back and hovers over me, propped on his side, his head resting on one hand, and his other hand brushing through my hair.
I love having my hair played with. I always have. And no one’s done it in . . . seven years.
“I think you probably like to intimidate everyone.”
He doesn’t deny that statement, he just smirks.
I can see from this close, in this low light, that his brown eyes are flecked with gold, and there’s a thin scar that bisects his lower lip, just right of center.
“What happened?” I brush my finger over the scar, and he sucks my digit into his mouth, biting playfully.
“Who remembers?” He leans in and presses kisses to my cheek, my nose, and then my lips.
Shouldn’t he be getting tired already?
I like him too much to lie in his bed with him, as if nothing at all is going on, when I plan to go through all his shit to find out if he knows where Rose is.
I’m an excellent liar, but I don’t enjoy it.
Finally, it looks like his eyes are getting heavy.
“You’re tired.”
He frowns, and then his arm gives out and his head falls to the pillow.
“You wore me out, Savage.”
I chuckle and reach over to drag my fingertip down the bridge of his nose. This is the last time I’ll see him like this, and I want to soak it up for just one more minute.
“Thanks for tonight,” I whisper, and he hums, his eyes no longer able to stay open, and I wait a few more minutes after he starts to breathe deeply, just to make sure he’s truly asleep.
Then, I push out of the bed and hurry into my clothes, shove the plastic bag into my purse, and start to snoop.
Do I know what I’m looking for? Absolutely not. But I have to try. Maybe there’s mention of Damien or my sister or human trafficking or something.
Something.
Although, the thought of the sexy, funny man that just fucked me into oblivion being a trafficker makes me want to throw up.
Because I like him. Sure, he’s a mess. He’s scary, and I get the distinct feeling that he’s into some shadier shit than a fighting club, but he’s treated me like a queen while also making me a little slutty.
A slutty queen.
It’s so my jam.
“Don’t be an asshole pervert,” I whisper as I fish his phone out of his pants and try to unlock it. Of course it’s locked.
I hold it up to his face, but no luck.
I try a series of numbers, but let’s be real, there are likely thousands of combinations of possible numbers, and I’ll never hack into it. Not that I really thought I could, but maybe he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t have his phone locked.
Fuck.
Abandoning the phone, I leave the bedroom and search through the penthouse. It really is beautiful. Boldly masculine, with clean lines, and while it might not be my own personal style, I can respect the fuck out of it.
No. Stop it. Find the evidence to get Rose.
The kitchen is huge, and I can’t resist opening the fridge, finding it well stocked.
My stomach growls, so I grab a cheese stick from a drawer and munch as I go back to prowling the space. I have no idea how long he’ll be out, so I need to move quick.
Finally, I find an office.
“Jackpot.”
I rush over to the computer and wake it up, but when it asks for a password, I pause. What the hell kind of password would he use? I don’t know anything about him, other than he owns a fight club and fucks like a goddamn god. His club clearly does very well for itself, given where he lives.
So I type that in.
Fightclub
Fight club
Fight Club
“That’s not it.” I tap my finger against my lips, thinking.
Kick Ass
A$$Kicker
BigDickEnergy
I snort at that one and then sit in the chair, blowing out a raspberry as I spin in a circle. This is as hopeless as the phone.
“The conclusion I’ve come to is, I would make a shitty spy.” I open drawers and rifle through papers, but there’s really nothing here. “Trust me to find the guy who’s fully digital.”
Or, if he’s high up in the flesh trade, he probably has people who handle stuff for him.
I comb through the rest of the place, but there’s nothing here that would give me any indication that he knows my sister.
There is, however, a lot of art. Expensive shit. And none of that interests me.
I’m not here to rob him, I just want information.
But I also don’t want to ask him and then have him off me because I’m asking the wrong questions.
After climbing the stairs again and walking into his room, I see that Mateo hasn’t moved and he’s breathing softly. I check his closet, marveling at his watch collection, and then find his wallet in his pants and take a photo of his license.
That’s all I’m going to get out of this. The best sex ever in the history of sex and a photo of his license.
I really suck at this.
And I’m tired myself. I worked all day at the shop, spent the evening at the fight, and was put through the sexual paces by the Latino god over there, so I need to go home and catch a few hours before I have to go to work again.
I can’t resist taking one last look at him.
“I hope you’re not the monster in my story,” I whisper before I grab my bag and leave the bedroom, hurry down the stairs to the front door, and let myself out.
I press the button for the lobby floor and then exit the building and walk down a block before I order an Uber to go home.
Once I’m safely in my apartment, I shed my clothes and toss them in the laundry basket, take a hot shower, and then fall into bed.
I’ll start my research on Mateo in the morning.