Chapter 6: Night at the Villette

Antonio’s words echoed in my head: the lady is waiting for you in the villette. I had no idea what he meant. By lady, or by villette. Was this a word only fancy people understood? I resorted to one of the oldest tricks: the drunk buffoon. I loosened the tight tie around my neck until it was just a loose necklace of silk. Tipsy, I thought—tipsy made any sin feel plausible, any forgetfulness forgivable.

A corridor’s corner rounded past stained‐glass panels and oil portraits of Brisa forebears. A maid—a slip of a woman in gray whose eyes glinted too sharply—sidled up beside me.

“Señor?” she asked, voice soft but precise.

“Bit lost,” I paused at a desk, ran a hand through my dark hair (or what passed for it in this boss’s life), and feigned unsteadiness. “Hard night.”

Her fingers trembled just enough to betray something more than duty. “Come this way. She’s expecting you.”

The sea breeze hit me before I even saw the Villette—its whitewashed façade pressed right against the seawall, lanterns in the eaves flickering like watchful sentinels. This mini-mansion wasn’t part of the main building, but appeared as a private retreat. Salty air wafted from mere feet away, wind carrying the groan of tide against stone.

Inside, the bedchamber glowed under a single lamp—seafoam silk curtains, a four‐poster dressed in cream and jade. I blinked against the opulence until she rose from beneath those covers.

Marsha.

Her hair was splayed across the pillow like midnight on water. One silk‐shrouded leg draped the bedframe; her lips curved into that same brittle smile. She wore black silk, well, there was some in strategic places, a fur coat, and diamonds around her throat.

“Hello sir.” She sat upright and patted the space beside her. “You’re late.”

My tongue felt heavy. “I… I got lost,”

The door swung shut behind me.

She patted again. “Come here.” Her voice was silk and steel. I crossed the room slowly, each footstep heavier than the last.

When I reached the edge of the bed, she ran a finger down my silk‐lined lapel. “You do clean up nice.” Her eyes glinted, as if daring me to regret what came next.

My mind raced. I’d stepped through that mirror into a life I didn’t understand, and now here she was—my ex‐wife, seducing the boss of the Brisa family.

“Marsha,” I said, voice rough. “What are you—”

She silenced me with a finger to my lips. “Don’t pretend you don’t know why I’m here.” She leaned forward, tracing a slow circle on my wrist. “Antonio said you wanted to see me again. And here I am. Do you like what you see?”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “Marsha…”

She pressed her palm against my cheek, thumb brushing the stubble I didn’t grow. “I missed you.” Her eyes glistened—hungry, ****, commanding all at once.

I closed the distance to her, hands settling on the curve of her waist. Her robe fell open at the slightest shift, revealing the faint ridges of silk against bare skin. I inhaled her—jasmine—and the last of my resolve melted away.

My fingers slid beneath the straps of her negligee. They fell, slow as a sigh, revealing shoulders that gleamed like moonlight. Her skin was velvet under my touch. I traced the curve of her collarbone, then the hollow of her throat where her pulse thrummed—fast, eager. She arched toward me, a silent command.

I leaned down. Her lips parted, soft and warm, tasting of salt and secrets. Her hands slid up my chest, pushing the jacket away until it crumpled to the floor. The silk shirt followed, buttons popping like little gunshots in the quiet.

Her breath hitched as my mouth found her neck. I nipped, kissed, traced the line of her jaw. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer. Her robe slipped further, revealing the swell of her breasts. I slid my hands beneath the silk, cupping her, feeling her gasp against my mouth.

She pulled me onto the bed. Onto her. Her eyes, dark and dangerous, locked onto mine. I straddled her, my thighs bracketing her hips, the heat of her searing through the thin fabric of my trousers. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, and kissed me- deep, slow, drowning.

Her hand slid down my stomach, fingers tracing the hard line beneath the fabric. She found the buckle of my belt, the sound of it coming undone sharp in the room. Then the zipper teeth parting like a gasp. Her hand slipped inside, wrapping around me. I groaned, hips pushing forward, into her grasp. Her touch was firm, knowing, driving every thought from my head but her.

She guided me to her entrance, wet and ready. Then she sank down, taking me in inch by slow inch, a tight, hot sheath that stole my breath. She threw her head back, a low moan escaping her lips. Her hips began to move—slow at first, a deep, grinding rhythm that built heat low in my belly.

I gripped her hips, guiding her, matching her pace. I rode her harder, her body a wild, beautiful thing. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, sweat glistening on her skin. The air filled with the sound of our bodies. Skin slapping skin, her gasps, my growls, the relentless crash of waves outside the window. She cried out, her legs wrapping around my waist. I drove into her, deeper, harder. Her nails dug into my back, scoring lines of fire. She arched up, meeting each thrust, her cries growing louder, more ****. Her body tightened around me, clenching, pulling me deeper.

Her climax hit her like a wave. She screamed, her body shuddering, her inner muscles pulsing around me. It tipped me over the edge. I buried myself deep inside her, groaning her name as I spilled into her, heat flooding through me until I was empty.

We lay tangled in sweat‐slicked sheets, breathing hard. The sea roared outside, a counterpoint to the quiet between us. Her hand rested on my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles. I stared at the ceiling, the opulent plasterwork swirling above me. Marsha sighed, nestling closer, her head on my shoulder.

“I wanted this,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “Ever since that night... I had to have you again. Now there's nothing standing in our way.”

I closed my eyes. The scent of jasmine and sex hung heavy in the air. Marsha. My soon-to-be ex‐wife. Sleeping with the boss of the Brisa crime family. And now I _was _that boss. The pieces clicked into place, cold and sharp. She’d slept with him before. Who knew how long ago. Before she had moved out, nine months ago? The thought was a knife in the gut. I’d walked into a viper’s nest wearing a dead man’s skin. And the most dangerous viper of all was curled right beside me, purring in the aftermath of passion. Her breath was soft against my neck, her body warm and trusting against mine.

Trusting. That was the poison in it. She thought I was him. She thought the man who’d just fucked her with such possessive fury was the man she’d been betraying Cole Vane with all along.

The waves kept crashing. Relentless. Like the truth waiting to drown us both. Her fingers traced my shoulder as if looking for a scar—a scar this body didn’t have. She paused. Frowned slightly in her half‐sleep. Then her hand smoothed over it, dismissing the thought.

I lay very still. The lamplight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the ceiling. Marsha sighed again, content. The game had just begun. And I was playing both sides

Hours slipped by like water through a grate. In the quiet between tides, we clung to each other- lovers tangled in sheets. She fit against me like a promise I thought I’d lost forever.

Dawn crept through gauzy curtains, painting her skin in pale gold. I lay awake while Marsha slept, her breaths soft as whispered lies. My mind drifted to Lila—torn petals, overdue notices, the brass mirror’s flash. I wondered if I still had the strength to save her, or if this new life would swallow me whole.

Marsha stirred and opened her eyes, lashes wet with sleep. She reached for my hand, entwined our fingers around the silk coverlet.

“Good morning, boss,” she murmured, a teasing lilt in her voice.

I kissed her palm. “Morning.”

I tried to sort the pieces: her divorce papers, her insistence that she had something better, and now this. I swallowed.

She leaned back, arms propped behind her. The satin sheets pooled around her waist. “So,” she said, voice low and mock‐innocent, “is the money on the nightstand?”

I stared at the small table beside the bed. An envelope, visibly filled with bills lay on a silver tray. My brain stuttered. “I—thought—”

She laughed- a brittle, mocking sound that grated. “You're a smart man; don't play dumb on my account. I’m not one of your in‐house girls. Unless and until I have some extra jewelry on my finger, I expect to be paid. Promptly.”

She slid from the bed and put on a silk dressing gown that barely contained her curves. She retrieved a sleek envelope from the nightstand. She made her way to the vanity and began to apply some mascara. I eyed her long legs where they spilled out from the short gown. “Don’t worry. You know Antonio will refill this nightly if you'd like. I’m not in the habit of going hungry, and you certainly have plenty of hunger inside of you.”

I closed my eyes, fighting the ache in my chest. She was fearless: a predator draped in diamonds, demanding her price. A price I couldn’t help but pay.

When I opened my eyes, she’d returned to the bed. She planted a kiss on my lips. Chaste, but carrying unspoken the night before. “Good,” she murmured. “See you again tonight?”