POV: Leonardo

“A... are you the Ghost Lord?” she asked carefully. There was nervousness in her voice, fear too. But underneath it, I heard something else. Curiosity...

I glanced at her fully for the first time since she entered the car.

Fuck!

She was beautiful.

Not in artificial polished way, she looked heartbreakingly real. Her makeup was slightly smudged from crying earlier, and despite the lingerie hidden beneath her coat and the effort she clearly made to resemble a stripper, sadness still clung to her eyes. Zach was a bigger idiot than I thought, and he’s one lucky bastard to have her as his.

“Do I look like a ghost?” I asked quietly. To my surprise, her lips twitched slightly like she was trying not to smile. That gesture is dangerous, very dangerous, because that tiny reaction sent another brutal wave of heat through my body.

I shifted slightly in my seat, hiding the growing erection pressing painfully against my tailored trousers.

“Control it, Leo, fucking control it!”

“What do you know about the Ghost Lord?” I asked. She hesitated before answering honestly.

“I know he’s scary,” she whispered.

“And powerful, and that Zach is terrified of him.” She said.

Good...

“He should be.” I let out fiercely. But, her gaze lingered on me longer this time. Then she said softly,

“I don’t think you’re what I expected.”

“Neither are you.” I thought within me. The car suddenly felt too small, too warm, too full of her scent. Every inhale was making things worse. I could already feel sweat gathering beneath my collar despite the freezing air conditioning blasting through the vehicle.

Shit!

Not again, not this badly. I needed distance before I lost control completely. Because if I touched her right now, if she leaned closer, if she accidentally brushed against me again. I wasn’t entirely sure I would stop myself from dragging her onto my lap and reminding her exactly what happened six years ago.

The thought alone nearly broke my restraint, I slammed my fist once against the armrest and immediately opened the car door before the driver had fully stopped at the private entrance to my tower. Kesley jumped slightly in surprise.

I stepped out quickly, inhaling the cool night air like a drowning man reaching the surface. Luther appeared beside me instantly.

“Boss?”

“Take her upstairs,” I ordered coldly, refusing to look back into the car.

“Get her cleaned up, new dress, food and security outside the suite.” I ordered sternly. Luther frowned immediately.

“You’re not meeting her?”

“I said take her upstairs.” He stared at me carefully, probably noticing the tension in my posture and the way my hands curled into fists at my sides. Then his eyes widened slightly with realization.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Exactly...

I loosened my tie roughly while trying to steady my breathing. Behind me, Kesley slowly stepped out of the car looking confused and slightly hurt by my sudden departure.

The sight almost destroyed what little control I had left. Because she looked at me the same way she looked six years ago after waking up in my bed.

Confusion shows on her face, she’s obviously unaware of the devastation she caused just by existing. I turned away immediately before my body betrayed me further.

“Don’t let her leave,” I said quietly to Luther. Then I walked toward the private elevator alone, swallowing another pill dry while wondering how the hell I was supposed to survive having Kesley Cross under my roof. Will I be forced to have a cold shower after every conversation with her?

The moment the elevator doors closed behind me, I knew I was completely screwed. Not because Zachary Jonas was one of the most dangerous criminals in the city, not because half the underworld wanted my head, not even because I had spent years building a carefully calculated operation that could collapse if I made one stupid mistake.

No.

The problem was a curvy, sexy five-foot-something woman named Kesley Cross. A woman who didn't even remember sleeping with me.

Life was funny like that...

I walked into my bedroom, loosened my tie, and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The man staring back looked exhausted, which was ridiculous. I have survived assassination attempts, gun fights, political scandals, even human trafficking rings.

Yet, somehow, one crying woman had me pacing around my bedroom like a nervous teenager before prom.

"Pathetic," I muttered in frustration. The door to the master bedroom slammed shut behind me, the heavy wood thudding against the frame, but the noise did nothing to drown out the roaring in my ears.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This had nothing to do with the exertion of running up the stairs. It’s all because of her. The way she had looked at me in the car, the subtle scent of her perfume that had clung to the air conditioning vents. It was a drug I hadn't built up a tolerance for.

I didn't bother with the lights. I stripped off my jacket and let it fall to the floor, followed by my shirt, buttons popping in my haste to get them undone. My shoes were kicked off, sending one skittering across the hardwood.

I hit the bathroom door with my shoulder, stumbling inside, and twisted the faucet handle violently to the left. The pipes groaned, then sputtered before unleashing a torrent of water. I stepped into the stall before the temperature could regulate, the shock of the icy spray hitting my skin like a physical blow.

It was exactly what I needed. Or so I told myself. My breath hissed through my teeth as the cold water ran down my chest, but the heat radiating from my groin didn't stop. If anything, the contrast made the throbbing worse.

I leaned one forearm against the slick tile, dropping my head as the water plastered my hair to my skull. My other hand moved instinctively to my cock, wrapping around the rigid length. It was almost painful, the pressure building to a point that felt like bursting.

I had taken the last of my pills this evening, draining the week’s supply in a single day of desperation, trying to chemically castrate the urge she stirred in me. They were supposed to numb me, to turn the volume down on this obsession. They were supposed to make me functional.

But no...

They were useless...

Closing my eyes, I surrendered to the current of my own depravity. I didn't fight the images flooding my mind. I saw her hands, the way her fingers had curled around the door handle earlier. I saw the curve of her neck when she laughed, a specific, throaty sound that seemed to vibrate in my chest.

I imagined her here, in this shower, the water turning her skin slick and glistening. I imagined the towel she was likely wearing, how it would cling to the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. My grip tightened, strokes fast and rough, fueled by a frantic need for release.

The fantasy took over, her smile, that knowing, teasing tilt of her lips that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to me. It was maddening. It was intoxicating. The friction of my palm against the sensitive head of my dick sent jolts of electricity up my spine, my hips bucking involuntarily into my fist.

"Fuck," I gritted out, the word swallowed by the spray of the shower.

It didn't take long. It never did when it was her. The coil in my gut snapped tight, and with a guttural groan, I spilled myself against the tiled wall, the release ripping through me with enough force to make my knees buckle. I stood there for a long moment, braced against the wall, the water washing away the evidence but doing nothing to scrub the guilt from my conscience.

As the fog of lust cleared, I started thinking about my earlier behavior. I had acted like a coward, I had practically fled the car the moment the engine stopped, bolting into the house like she was carrying some contagious disease I couldn't risk catching. I hadn't looked at her, hadn't spoken to her either. I had just run.

I turned off the water and grabbed a towel, rubbing it roughly over my skin. The guilt was a bitter taste in my mouth, I needed to fix this. I needed to face her, to explain that my erratic behavior wasn't about her, it was about my own inability to control myself around her.

I need to apologize first, and then we can have a conversation that didn't involve me staring at her chest or imagining her legs wrapped around my waist. Maybe I’ll be able to have a conversation with her without running out like a freaking lunatic

I dressed quickly, pulling on clean jeans and a dark t-shirt, trying to compose my features into something resembling normalcy. The walk to her room felt longer than usual, the hallway stretching out with each step. My pulse was steadier now, though the memory of the shower still lingered in the sensitivity of my skin.

I stopped in front of her door and raised my hand to knocked. I knocked once, twice, three times I knocked on the door. But the sound was absorbed by the heavy oak.

"Hey," I called out, keeping my voice low. "It's me. Leonardo." I said from outside the door. But there was absolute silence, no response from inside the guestroom, and no movement or sounds either. I waited, counting the seconds.

Maybe she had headphones on?

Maybe she was asleep?

I knocked again, louder this time, my knuckles rapping a sharp against the wood. Still nothing, no response from her. And that’s when the unease started at the base of my neck. It wasn't like her not to answer, not when she knew I was right there.

“Luther!

Get me the spare key, right now!” I screamed urgently, hoping she is okay.