Blood Ties (Dinero de Sangre #2) - Lana Sky Page 0,15

mother would have long since found her during all of the many renovations she’s had done to the property in the last decade. I’m sure during the tennis court reno, it might have gotten back to us if the workers stumbled upon the body of a fifteen-year-old girl.

It isn’t long, however, before my thoughts turn away from Pia to the man who claims to be her long-lost older brother.

Because he’s here.

His scent packs a physical punch despite the overall stealth of his entrance. He watches me for a while, from beyond this realm of glass. I can see him from the corner of my eye, a shadow over the gray color scheme.

Eventually, he grows bored of merely watching. Without bothering to disguise his entrance, he slides open the glass door—slowly enough for the cool air to battle with the wall of steam I’ve let build up.

I don’t turn to see if he’s naked or not. When I sense him claim the bench across from me, I move to a different corner of the stall, finding a hook where he left the washcloth from this morning.

He never let me clean myself, I realize. Even now, I can feel the remnants of him, stubbornly clinging to my innermost, sensitive parts. Snatching the rag, I find a bar of scented soap and work it into a lather. Then I take my time, scrubbing every last inch of my body.

I’m methodical, so intent on my work that I almost forget he’s watching.

“You think you can ignore me?” he asks, his voice heavy, though I don’t detect his usual anger.

A good fucking session could do that to a man, leaving him languid and relaxed after.

Enough! I shake my head to clear it and run the rag between my breasts, then over my stomach—all without paying him a single glance.

“I like you quiet, Ada-Maria,” he continues, still sounding as if he’s across the stall. He hasn’t moved.

Yet.

“I don’t think I like you bitter, though. Your lips aren’t meant to be pursed so tightly. The expression ages you.”

I scoff, giving him the attention he wants. “Don’t tell me you’re partial to my father’s tastes. How did you put it? Young, dumb, blond—”

“I’m not talking about any other woman, am I?” he counters in a tone that makes me grip my washcloth tighter. “I’m talking about you.”

“Me,” I echo hoarsely. “The woman you hate. The woman you hurt and have brutalized. The woman who hates you.”

“You couldn’t fuck a man you hated the way you fuck me.”

I feel my mouth fall open at his bluntness. The worst part? He sounds confident—too confident.

As if he’s studied how I fuck in general, well enough to make an educated inference.

“I’m good at faking it, Domino,” I counter. Finally, I gather the nerve to meet his gaze from over my shoulder.

There is no sly, mocking smile on his face. He’s dead serious.

“That you are,” he agrees, seated on the bench, leaning back against the wall. He’s naked, I realize, my cheeks flaming. The water pelts him, glistening off his skin and erasing any traces of sweat or exertion that he might have sported beforehand. “You are a damn good faker, at least for a man who doesn’t know any fucking better.”

I shiver, turning away to face the wall as I continue to wash myself. “You seem sure of that.”

“Because I am,” he replies. “Your boyfriend videotaped nearly every time he fucked in that penthouse of his—you, along with the many other women he was toying with. If it makes you feel any better, you were by far the sexiest. The bastard came faster with you than any other.”

I stiffen, horrified by how callously he can reveal such intimate acts. Is he telling the truth? Only God knows. Tristan, the bastard, wasn’t known for his faithful nature. I’d suspected his affair with Alexi early on, but am I surprised if she wasn’t the only one?

But therein lies another secret revealed by Domino’s admission—you were by far the sexiest. Is he including Alexi in that assessment?

God, I shouldn’t care…

“The second I heard you moan for real, I realized how damn good of an actress you are,” he continues, his voice loud and booming. Gone is the gruff undertone he took on with Jaguar in earshot. He’s shameless now, uncaring of who might overhear.

Perhaps, because he tired out Alexi well enough to know she’s dead to the world.

“I am a good actress,” I agree, dropping the washcloth. “So good I made you think you actually