All Chapters of Mummies and their Badboys: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Nine P.M. Deadline💦💧🫦The photo from the bedroom window was still on my phone when the sun cleared the formal hedges.Diego had not slept. He sat in the kitchen with coffee he barely touched, the path-camera USB drive between us on the table, and the trust-transfer agreement open on my laptop like a loaded weapon. The deadline sat in bold at the bottom of the email: 9:00 p.m.“They’re not going to stop at one preview,” he said. “If you don’t sign, they release enough to damage you. If you do sign, they own the leverage forever.”“I know.”“Then we don’t play their game. We change the board.”I looked at him—the soil still faintly worked into the skin around his nails, the scar through his eyebrow, the calm way he held himself like the next problem was just another irrigation line that needed cutting and recoupling. “How?”“Richard’s the public face. The messages, the sedan, the ‘concerned trustee’ emails—they all run through him or someone feeding him. But the photo last night mean

Unlocked Library, Shared Mouths💦💧😜“Stop.”Both of them froze on the stairs exactly where they were, Jax still on his knees three steps up, wrists cuffed at the small of his back, Cole standing behind him with his hands carefully at his sides. I held the phone so the screen faced them. The still image glowed in the low light: my robe open, Jax’s wet mouth, Cole’s face between my thighs, the timestamp twelve minutes earlier.“Someone was inside the house,” I said. “Camera behind the bar cart. They have video. They want the library door left unlocked tomorrow night or the file goes to the estate trust board and both of your parole officers.”Jax’s breathing stayed controlled, but his shoulders tightened. Cole’s eyes went flat and cold the way they did when a problem needed fixing with his hands.“We find the camera first,” Cole said. “Then we find who put it there.”“We do this my way.” I slipped the phone into the pocket of my robe. “Upstairs. Both of you. Same rules. Jax crawls. Co

After Midnight Balance😜💦“On your knees under the desk.”Roman dropped without a word. Twenty-five. Dark hair still damp from the staff shower. The night-auditor blazer hung open over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled. A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow. He had a record for breaking into places that were supposed to be secure—hotels, offices, once a private vault. I hired him anyway. People with his skills were useful when the books needed balancing after hours.I sat in the high-backed chair in my office on the mezzanine, the hotel silent beneath us except for the distant hum of the elevators. My pencil skirt was already shoved up to my hips. Roman’s hands settled on my thighs, waiting.“Mouth only,” I said. “You do not touch yourself. You do not rush. You make it last until I say otherwise.”“Yes, ma’am.”He leaned in and put his mouth on me. The first stroke of his tongue was slow, exact, the way I had taught him over the last six weeks of after-midnight “audits.” I kep

Three A.M. Stairwell💦💧We left the service stairwell locked.At 2:40 a.m. I sent the night clerk to the loading dock on a false errand about a missing delivery invoice. He went without question. Roman and I took position in the camera blind behind the ice machine, twelve feet from the stairwell door, with a clear line of sight and no coverage from the remaining active units. The recorder and both SIMs sat in Roman’s pocket. My phone stayed in my hand, screen dark.“If someone comes,” I said quietly, “we let them key the door. We see their face. Then we end it.”Roman nodded once. He was still hard under his trousers; I had not given permission otherwise. The fact of it sat between us like another order he was obeying.At 2:58 the stairwell door handle turned. Once. Twice. A soft metallic protest as someone tested the lock they had expected to find open. Silence. Then the faint beep of an override card. The deadbolt slid. The door opened three inches.Marcus Hale stepped into the cor

Board Lunch and Open Doors💦💧The audio clip stayed on my phone through the entire board lunch.I sat at the head of the long table in the dining room. At the same time, eight people who controlled pieces of my late husband’s company discussed quarterly numbers and succession optics, and all I could hear was my own moan and Ash’s voice asking if this was what I needed after playing hostess. I had deleted the message twice before the first course. Both times I recovered it. By the time the dessert plates were cleared, my pulse was still wrong and the place between my legs still ached with the memory of the marble counter.Ash ran the kitchen like nothing had happened. Perfect timing. Perfect temperatures. He plated the main with the same focused precision he had used on me the night before and never once looked through the pass in a way the servers would notice. Every time our eyes met across the hot line something hot and wordless passed between us. I tasted the sauce when protocol r