Chapter 23
Bastien Montclaire
Her struggle was the sweetest foreplay I’ve ever tasted.
The gym floor bites against my knuckles as I drop into push-ups.
Slow, punishing reps, chest grazing the floor.
Sweat hits the mat in sharp bursts. When my muscles shake, I keep going—forty more, fifty—until pain becomes rhythm.
Pull-ups next. Weighted squats. The strain burns away thought and leaves only breath and grit.
But it isn’t enough. The memory of her, the way she trembled, the sound she made when I broke her open—all of it still hums under my skin.
I wrap my hands and turn to the bag. Leather meets flesh, dull thuds filling the air. Each strike lands harder than the last, methodical and ruthless. By the time I finish, my arms tremble. My lungs are raw, and my pulse is a steady roar.
The shower runs hot enough to burn. Steam curls around me, washing sweat and salt from my skin. The water scalds, but it doesn’t compare to the heat between Laurette and me.
Dressed, hair still damp, I drop into the chair by the window and reach for my phone. I open the app, the one synced with the tiny tracker inside Laurette’s necklace. One tap, and her location flares bright on the screen.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth.
She slipped into this game like it was second nature, feeding the part of me that never stops hungering and never stops hunting. And the best part? She’s fully committed. She craves the attention, embraces the pressure, and hungers to be claimed.
Her signal pulses on the screen, a small blue dot moving across the map.
The pull hits low. It should be easy to let her go about her day, to maintain the distance she believes she has.
But I want to see everything—how she moves through the world when she thinks no one is watching, the sound of her laughter, the way she masks her nerves beneath that perfect composure.
So I go.
The tracker leads me to a sleek cafe near the courthouse, sunlight glinting off glass and steel. Across the street, I watch her through the window—close enough to catch the details, but far enough to remain unseen.
Sunlight catches her hair, turning it into dark silk. She tilts her head when she laughs, a small, unguarded motion that strikes harder than it should. Her hand lifts to tuck a strand behind her ear, fingers brushing the curve of her neck, always graceful even when she isn’t trying to be.
Richard sits opposite her—the DA, mid-fifties, his wedding ring flashing as he gestures. I flick my gaze over him once and dismiss him as a threat.
Laurette holds her own in conversation, leaning in when she speaks, brows drawn. She listens, and her jaw tightens just enough to betray how much she is holding back. She’s beautiful in that way, contained with all that fire kept under control.
She doesn’t look toward the window, doesn’t sense me watching her.
I cross the street and step inside.
“Table for one?” the hostess asks, bright and smiling.
I nod once. “It’s a beautiful day. Next to the window would be perfect.”
She seats me at the table beside them, only a breath of space between us. The necklace rests against her collarbone, catching the light when she moves. She toys with it as she speaks, fingertips tracing the small pendant.
My necklace on her.
She doesn’t know what that does to me.
I order without looking, words automatic and meaningless.
The phone comes out next, head down, the picture of distraction.
Every few seconds, my eyes lift. I catch the small tuck of her hair and the measured way she gestures when she speaks.
It’s effortless for her—composure wrapped in warmth, a performance she doesn’t even know she’s giving.
She’s unaware I could reach out and touch her right now.
Daylight suits her. Her skin glows, pale as porcelain, and her eyes—brilliant blue—catch the light like glass.
It’s the first time I’ve seen them in full sun, framed by lashes so black they look inked in. Dangerous. Designed to undo.
She’s focused and fierce, every inch of her unaware. Quick with her words, and quicker with that smile that could unmake a man if she wanted it to.
And all the while, she doesn’t know the man sitting three feet away is already imagining how to get her alone. My mouth curves as I glance back down at the screen, heat building behind my zipper.
She makes it so easy to want her.
Their voices carry, low and measured, sharp enough to cut through the cafe hum.
“I’m not interested in a plea deal, Richard.” Laurette’s tone is fiery. “You’ve read the file. You know what he did.”
Richard exhales, the sound heavy with politics and fatigue. “Laurette, no one is saying he walks. I’m saying we have to be smart about what we can prove in court. You think a jury will convict on a video the defense is already dismantling frame by frame?”
She leans in, eyes bright. “Then they’ll have to watch it again until they see it. Until they see her.”
Her fingers tap on the tabletop as she speaks. “A seventeen-year-old girl was brutally assaulted.”
Richard lowers his voice, a warning more than an argument. “You know who his family is. You know how this town works.”
“I don’t give a damn who his family is. I’m not backing off.”
I keep my head bowed, eyes on my screen, but every word slides under my skin and stays there.
She’s beautiful when she fights.
I want her now, bent over the nearest surface, teeth sunk into her bottom lip, trying to smother the sounds I rip from her.
The surge hits hard, something feral clawing for release. Every muscle locks, and control hangs by a thread. For a moment, all I hear is the pulse in my ears.
I stand, forcing calm back into my limbs.
The hallway is narrow and dim, walls bathed in the soft glow of recessed lighting.
I move through it without hurry, eyes cataloging every detail—the emergency exit veiled behind a velvet curtain, a supply closet cracked just enough to show folded linens, cleaning supplies, and crates of bottled water.
The switch is outside. No cameras. Sparse traffic.
When I return to the table, Laurette’s still locked in conversation—eyes sharp, mouth quick, hands slicing through the air over the open files. She radiates a wildfire energy, fierce and unapologetic.
Desire coils tight in my balls.
I drop into the chair, head tilted down, thumb steady on the screen.
Send.
Excuse yourself to the restroom. The supply closet is on the left before the ladies’ room. You will wait inside, facing the wall. Don’t turn around when I enter. I’ll join you shortly.
I slip the phone into my pocket. And wait.
The cafe hums around me. Espresso hisses. Silverware clinks.
It doesn’t take long.
Her purse buzzes against her chair. Her head tilts, and her eyes flick down. I see the moment the world narrows for her—the flicker of hesitation, the pulse leaping in her throat, the way her spine stiffens.
Richard’s still talking—something about court schedules and evidence. None of it matters.
Laurette’s fingers slide into her bag—an actress pretending calm. The phone emerges and the screen flares.
I see it the moment it happens. Her control falters, not with a scream but a whisper. She goes rigid in the shoulders. Her mouth opens, soft and silent. Her pulse flutters at her throat, fast and frantic, giving her away.
That breath belongs to me.
That fear.
That hunger.
Laurette slips a polite smile onto her face, smoothing a hand through her hair as she rises. “Excuse me for a moment, Richard. I need to run to the ladies’ room.”
That’s my good girl.
He waves her off without looking up, already absorbed in his sandwich.
I see the way her breath hitches before she moves and then the careful precision in every step as she turns away—shoulders pulled back, chin high, the perfect portrait of composure.
But I know what’s underneath it. I see the storm beating in her chest. I see the flush creeping up her neck, betraying everything she’s trying so hard to hide.
She walks toward the back of the cafe, and sunlight slides over her like a slow caress. Her hips sway with quiet confidence, and her head tilts just enough to draw the eye. Every movement is deliberate, controlled, and obedient.
The throbbing under my zipper sharpens, and my cock strains hard against my jeans.
I reach for my wallet, toss more than enough cash on the table, and stand.
Time for dessert. I’m thinking cream pie.
The cafe hums on, unaware. My stride is unhurried as I move toward the back hall, every step a quiet act of possession.
The supply closet waits, door half-ajar. Light spills from the crack.
The switch sits outside. With one flick, the light dies.
I ease the door shut when I’m inside. The latch catches with a soft, final click, and darkness fills the space.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
She’s standing there, motionless, back to me like prey that senses the predator but hasn’t yet run. Her fingers twitch at her sides with her shoulders drawn tight.
She knows I’m here now.
That it’s me.
That the door is closed and no one’s coming to save her.
I move in close enough for her body heat to bleed into mine. Close enough to inhale her—soft, warm, and addictive. The space between us warps, stretches thin, hums with tension so sharp it aches.
I lean in, my breath skimming the shell of her ear.
“You did exactly as I told you. Good girl.”
She shivers. A tiny gasp escapes before she clamps it down, lips pressed tight.
Her voice is soft and shaky, a whisper trying to find courage. “You followed me here?”
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. “Yes.”
My hand slides up her thigh, grazing bare skin, fingers brushing the heat that pulses just beneath. “I watched you through lunch. I sat close enough to touch you, and you didn’t realize.”
I let my mouth drift closer, breath warm against her ear. “Does that turn you on?”
“Yes. A lot.”