The Mafia Debt
My hand hesitated on the doorknob for just a moment before I pushed it open without knocking.
Cassian was seated on the leather sofa, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his sculpted chest. Straddling his lap was a woman wearing what appeared to be a French maid costume—but one that had been reimagined by someone with a very warped sense of what maids actually wore. The tiny black dress barely covered her thighs, the white apron was little more than a handkerchief, and instead of sensible shoes, she wore six-inch stiletto heels with little white bows at the ankles.
They were locked in a passionate embrace, his hands cupping her exposed breasts, her costume pulled down to her waist. At the sound o
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