The Sweetest Oblivion (Made 1)

He had something I wanted.

Oscar had me . . . and then he was dead.

I wanted to dismiss the idea that Nico had done what I was beginning to think he did, or rather, why he’d done it, because just the thought started a kindling in my chest that felt suspiciously like hope.

Without hope, there’s nothing to lose.

With it, we’re nothing but dominos waiting to fall.

Still, as his presence filled this office, that kindling fed on the warm bravado of it, and grew and grew.

“You get a good look at the club?”

My grip tightened on my phone as though it could ground me to earth. “Quite.” I turned around to see him leaning against the corner of his desk, a piercing gaze glued to me.

“I don’t think I’m a fan of finding you talking to some Escobar alone.”

By his tone that was a gross understatement.

“But I can talk to you?” I raised a brow, hinting at how he wasn’t a much different man in the regard to ethics.

“Not can.” His eyes darkened. “Will.”

I wanted to ask him: If I don’t, will you make me? But the words caught in my throat. There was nothing playful in this office—there was gunpowder and flame. One wrong move and it would detonate.

I couldn’t breathe while the threat snuffed out any remaining oxygen. We only stared at each other, both recognizing the distinct longing hanging in the air like the Monet on the wall, but neither addressing it.

Nerves rattled in my veins with a cold whisper.

I wanted to be the best thing he’d ever had. To make him burn as much as he made me. I wanted him to want only me with a raw ache. However, I didn’t believe I could ever compare to the more experienced women he’d been with. And I always was a bit of a perfectionist—if I couldn’t do it faultlessly, I hesitated to do it at all.

“Were you friends with Oscar?” The words fought to be heard in the tense atmosphere.

A grimace flared behind his eyes as he pushed off the desk. “No.”

“Did you work with him?”

He grabbed the car keys off his desk and rolled his shoulders, like even talking about Oscar agitated him. “No.”

“Not even—?”

“I didn’t fucking know the guy, Elena,” he snapped.

My brows knitted in a poor attempt to pretend I was taken aback. But really, warm honey filled my heart, creeping through my vessels and veins.

He had something I wanted.

And now I knew it was me.

Dirty Diana by Shaman’s

Harvest filtered through the car speakers, fusing with the bottled-up tension rolling off me. If it were possible to put fucking the girl next to me out of my mind for one goddamn minute, this song about a slut named Diana would ruin it.

My self-restraint was pulled taut. I could hear the fibers snapping one by one until it hung by a thread, and my grip tightened on the steering wheel.

I deserved a fucking award for this.

Because nothing physical stopped me from letting go. From slipping my hand between her thighs and pushing two fingers inside her. From fucking her with them and letting her roll her hips against my palm until she came. I wanted it badly enough I could smell her, taste her. My mouth watered, a deep wave tightening in my stomach and burning a downward spiral.