The car humd beneath us as Diana drove, her posture effortlessly elegant—back straight, shoulders relaxed, yet every movent radiating a quiet, commanding presence.
My gaze kept drifting, unable to resist the sight of her thighs, toned and smooth beneath the fabric of her dress.
The hem rode just high enough to tease, hinting at the curves of a woman who had spent forty years mastering the art of confidence.
The muscles in her legs flexed subtly with each press of the pedal, a silent reminder of the strength—and the passion—she carried.
But it wasn’t just her body that captivated . It was the way her fingers curled around the steering wheel, delicate yet firm, the veins tracing delicate paths beneath her skin. It was the way her jawline, sharp and refined, tensed slightly as she concentrated on the road, her full lips pressed together in quiet determination.
Even the faintest lines around her eyes, earned from years of laughter and secrets, only made her more intoxicating. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was a force, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to take it.
Diana glanced at , her dark eyes catching the flicker of my attention. A knowing smirk played at the corners of her mouth. "Why do you keep looking?" she asked, her voice low, almost a purr.
I didn’t bother hiding it. "I just think my wife is really beautiful."
She let out a soft, throaty chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. "How many girls have you said that to?" she teased, though there was a sharpness beneath the playfulness, a challenge.
Her words struck like a physical blow. For a mont, I was speechless, the weight of my past flings crashing against the reality of her—of what she ant to . I exhaled slowly, my voice rough with honesty.
"I may have said it to many won..." I admitted, my fingers twitching with the urge to reach for her.
"But Diana..." I let my gaze linger on the graceful slope of her neck, the way her collarbone peeked out from the fabric of her blouse, "You’re the only one who makes my heart flutter. The only one who makes feel it."
She didn’t look away from the road, but I saw it—the way her breath hitched, the way her thighs shifted ever so slightly in the seat, as if she were fighting the urge to close the distance between us.
She didn’t turn to look at , but I saw it—the way her breath caught, the way her thighs pressed together ever so slightly in the seat, as if she were fighting the urge to close the distance between us.
The air in the car grew thick, charged with sothing electric, sothing raw and unspoken. For a mont, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the quiet rhythm of her breathing.
Diana’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, but her voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "Hmm... you’re making feel good." Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just a little. "But words are easy, Dexter. Let’s see if you still feel the sa after tonight."
The car turned sharply, tires gripping the asphalt as we headed toward the neon-lit heart of the city. My eyebrows shot up as we pulled up to the most notorious club in New York—its towering facade pulsing with music and light, the kind of place where deals were made, and secrets were buried.
Diana didn’t hesitate. She stepped out, her heels clicking against the pavent with the authority of soone who owned not just the club, but the very streets it stood on. She reached for my hand, her grip firm, almost possessive, as she led inside.
"This—?" I started, but she cut off with a smirk, her eyes glinting with sothing dark and unreadable.
"This is my place," she said simply, her voice cool, but I caught the faintest tremor in her fingers.
The elevator ride was silent, the tension between us palpable. When the doors dinged open, they revealed a penthouse so vast and opulent it stole my breath—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, sleek furniture that scread power, and an air of quiet nace. But before I could take it all in, my attention snapped to the woman standing in the center of the room.
Grace.
She was tall, her posture rigid, her sharp eyes flicking from Diana to . "Boss," she greeted, her voice clipped and professional. Then, her gaze landed on , and her expression shifted—sothing like recognition, or maybe respect. "Master Dexter."
I feigned surprise, glancing at Diana. "Diana... this—"
"Dexter, et Grace," Diana said, her voice smooth, but I felt the way her palm grew damp against mine, her nerves betraying her. "She’s my most trusted employee."
Diana didn’t look at as she spoke to Grace, her voice leaving no room for argunt. "Grace, wait outside. We need privacy."
Grace nodded without a word and disappeared, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
Diana led deeper into the penthouse, through a reinforced door that looked like it belonged to a high-security vault.
The mont it swung open, the sight hit like a punch to the gut—rows upon rows of tal crates, stacked neatly, filling the massive space. Thousands of them. My stomach twisted.
Diana walked to one of the crates, her movents deliberate, almost ritualistic. She pried it open with a crowbar, the tal groaning as the lid lifted to reveal what was inside.
Military-grade rifles, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights, nestled in foam padding like sleeping beasts. I stepped closer, my fingers brushing the cold tal of one as I lifted it, testing its weight. "This... feels really real."
"Because it is," Diana said, her voice steady, but her eyes were fixed on the crate, unable—or unwilling—to et mine. "Every single one of these crates is filled with the sa. Assault rifles. Handguns. Explosives. Enough firepower to start a war."
She finally turned to face , her expression a mix of defiance and sothing softer, sothing broken. "I’m not just a businesswoman, Dexter. Her voice cracked, just a little. "I’m an arms dealer. The governnt calls a terrorist. The underworld calls a queen. And the people who depend on ? They call their savior."
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