AUTHOR
Meanwhile, in a lavishly appointed penthouse suite in Brooklyn Heights, the atmosphere was thick with a different kind of tension. The air smelled of expensive Jo Malone perfume, sex, and simmering resentment.
Payton Rimestone lay tangled in the impossibly soft Frette linens of her king-sized bed, her naked body glistening with a faint sheen of sweat.
The straps of her La Perla chemise were twisted around her arms, a casualty of the passionate encounter that had just concluded.
But instead of the languid afterglow her partner seemed to be feeling, Payton was a tightly coiled spring of fury.
Beside her, Denki Fujii, equally naked, propped himself up on an elbow. His expression was one of calm, attentive neutrality, but his mind was whirring, cataloging her every word and tremor.
His role, as always, was to listen, to absorb, and to control.
