Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Dane
Baby-blue eyes, wide and innocent, blink up at me through a curtain of dark lashes. Her hands part my thighs, slow and sure, as her tongue glides across her lips.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Black,” she whispers. “I’ve been a bad girl.”
A groan rips from my chest as her fingers curl around my cock. Her tongue teases the head, then those soft, sinful lips swallow me whole—deep, tight, perfect. She milks me, her breasts pressed against my thighs, nipples like razors, those eyes never leaving mine.
F-U-C-K.
I jolt awake, breath sawing through my chest, her name a raw plea on my lips. My cock’s so hard it hurts.
Oh, she has no idea what she’s started.
My favorite little Peeping Tom.
When I came back to my room yesterday after a long, drawn-out meeting, I thought tiredness was making me insane.
Her honey scent was everywhere, saturating the walls, crawling under my skin like she’d bewitched me.
Worse, I swore I heard her—soft, breathy, that little moan bleeding into my skull while I tried to jerk her out of my soul.
Then it turns out the moan wasn’t born out of my twisted fantasies.
It was real. And the equally real version was tiptoeing out of my suite like someone sneaking off to avoid the morning after.
But there’s no running from me. She should know better. Because after the best sleep in months, I’m ready to play. The idea of a parliamentary select committee has never filled me with so much anticipation. She probably thinks she’s safe. But I’ll let her squirm for a bit. Toy with her.
Until it’s time to let her know her dirty little secret is safe with me—for now.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed and grab my phone. I walk toward the bathroom, my stupid-ass grin reflecting in the screen as I type a message to Sloane.
me
Be ready to leave at 7:30 am; we’re going to Westminster
Her reply is immediate.
sloane
Yes. Should I bring any paperwork?
me
No. You’re enough.
More than enough.
I chuckle darkly and throw my phone down before hitting the shower, except this time it’s strangely disappointing I don’t have an audience.
After I’m done, I wrap a towel around my waist and lather shaving foam on, another grin breaking free when my cologne bottle catches my eye—the lid is off.
Interesting. So, as well as enjoying the free show, she had a little snoop.
I whistle as I slip into my black Brioni suit, my mood more perky than normal.
Either it’s the sleep or her. Regardless, there’s a definite spring in my step that’s been missing for far too long.
As I step out of the elevator, my eyes sweep the lobby before I can stop myself—a reflex that’s getting harder to control.
A ghost of a smile tugs at my mouth when I spot her leaning against the wall, chewing her lip in that maddening way she does when she’s lost in thought, gaze fixed on her phone.
“Good morning, Dane.”
I turn, masking my disappointment when our press officer, Maria Hamel, strides over—impeccable as ever. Copper waves, red lips, the perfect contrast to her black Chanel suit. Every detail curated to project control.
“Were you looking for me?” she asks, voice laced with the easy confidence of someone who assumes she’s the star of every room she walks into.
She’s beautiful, brilliant—women want to be her; men want her.
But to me, she’s too contrived. Too polished.
Too much like my father’s world. I’ve lived that future—society weddings, summers in the Hamptons, golf club presidencies, kids chauffeured to Ivy League schools with their calendars managed like CEOs.
“We should go,” she says. “The car is waiting.” She frowns as my eyes drift over her shoulder once again.
This time, Sloane glances up, and our eyes meet. The flush that colors her cheeks hits fast, betraying her even from across the room. I can practically feel the spike of panic she tries to hide as she pushes off the wall and heads toward us.
I shouldn’t enjoy this as much as I do, but it takes a monumental effort to wipe the twisted satisfaction from my face.
“Sloane,” Maria says, making no effort to hide her disappointment that she’s interrupting our cozy party of two.
“Good morning, Sloane.” My voice comes out lower than I plan, threaded with smug amusement, my pulse kicking up a notch with an unfamiliar rush I don’t care to analyze. Her hair is pulled back today, neat, professional—but that only makes me think about it spilling loose across my pillow.
I fight back a smirk as she mumbles a quick good morning; her gaze anywhere but me. As we walk to the car, she doesn’t risk a single glance my way.
Yep, I’m going to enjoy this.
The car glides through London’s gray morning, the city half awake beyond the tinted glass. Maria’s voice rattles from the seat next to me—something about figures, projections, parliamentary talking points. I nod occasionally, though my attention isn’t on her.
It’s on Sloane.
She’s seated opposite me, spine straight, chin tilted as if perfect posture can shield her from my gaze. Every few seconds, she crosses and uncrosses her legs, the movement small, controlled. But not small enough to miss.
Maria keeps talking.
I keep watching.
“So,” I cut in smoothly, eyes still on Sloane, “you managed to deliver the documents to my room without any difficulties?”
Her head snaps toward me before she can stop it. The pulse in her throat jumps. “I—what?”
Maria’s phone rings, and she steps neatly into another conversation, allowing my focus to be solely on Sloane.
“You know,” I continue, my gaze steady on her, “the folder you left last night.”
“Um—right.” Her voice is strained. “No issues.”
Sloane’s eyes jump back to the window now, her shoulders tense. She knows. She senses it—the weight of me watching her. I lean back against the leather, stretching an arm along the back of the seat.
The silence between us tightens until Sloane’s phone vibrates sharply.
Her hand darts to it, flipping it over. But not before I catch the name glowing on the screen.
Brody.
I file the name away. Lover? Boyfriend? Whoever he is, he won’t be a match for me.
The device buzzes again. She silences it, jaw tightening.
“Answer it,” I say.
Her head turns, eyes flashing for the first time this morning. “It can wait.”
“It’s ringing again.”
“I said it can wait.”
Her voice doesn’t tremble this time. There it is—the spark. The fire she tries so hard to bury under that careful composure. I let the corner of my mouth tilt.
Maria is still droning on in the background. She pauses her call momentarily. “If they raise the issue of fiscal accountability, Mr. Black, I suggest—”
“Mm,” I murmur, still looking at Sloane. “We’ll handle it.”
I let the tension build until the air feels too thick. Then—softly, almost casually—I say, “You seem tired, Sloane. Did you sleep well?”
Her head turns, the faintest flicker of alarm in her eyes.
“You know how those old hotels are,” I go on, my voice dipping low. “Creepy sometimes. Things moving around when you’re not looking. That strange feeling someone is watching you.”
For a heartbeat, she freezes. Before her mouth curves into a slow, razor-edged smile.
“Yeah,” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “There’s definitely an evil presence staying at the hotel.” She holds my gaze for a fraction too long before turning back to the window, biting her lip to conceal a smile.
I let a low sound of amusement hum in my throat, my fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the seat.
“You should probably lock your door,” I murmur.
Her chin lifts, eyes glinting in challenge. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
This time, she doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
The corner of my mouth twitches; my voice rough with something I don’t bother to hide. “See that you do.”
For a moment, the only sound is the slow tap of my fingers on leather before Maria ends her call and resumes her monologue about projections and policy, blissfully unaware that the temperature in the car has turned molten.
The car rolls to a stop, and I glance out the window. Westminster rises ahead of us. An empire carved in stone, its spires cutting into the clouds like a sharpened crown.
Maria exits first, still talking. Sloane reaches for the handle, but I catch it, my voice soft.
“You know what they say, Sloane?” She shivers as I lean closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“No, Mr. Black.” Her voice is quiet but steady.
“If you play with the devil...” I let the words drag, savoring her sharp inhale. “Eventually, he starts to play back.”
Her breath hitches, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m not afraid.”
My face twists into a slow, dark smile as I release the door and let the chilly morning air filter in.
“Oh, you should be.”