They call her the ghost, but that’s just because by the time anyone realizes what’s missing, she’s already gone.
Meet Ryder. Petite, with a fall of straight, dark brunette hair that falls ever so perfectly. She’s the kind of gorgeous that makes men hand over the keys to the kingdom without a second thought. That face—innocent, arresting, and entirely deceptive—is our greatest asset.
People just trust her. It’s almost a superpower.
Tonight, her job is the shadow work, Ryder is the velvet glove.
She’s wearing a backless silk dress that whispers against her skin, with objective ticking on the clock. A wicked, knowing smirk touches her glossy lips. We aren’t just partners in crime; we’re accomplices in the truest, most intoxicating sense.
“Twenty minutes before he returns from the lounge,” she murmurs, her voice a low, husky purr that rattles right through my ribs.
“Then we have time to play,” I growl, closing the distance between us.
The adrenaline of the heist is addicting, but it has nothing on her. I pin her petite frame against the cold mahogany of the study door, burying my face in the crook of her neck. She smells like expensive perfume and pure trouble. Her hands find the lapels of my jacket, pulling me in tighter, her fingers digging in with a fierce, demanding urgency.
We always get what we want. Always.
And just like that as soon as we Entered, besides the little fun, we make sure the job gets accomplished. To perfection.
As we slip back out into the cool night air, blending effortlessly into the city crowd, she slips her small, warm hand into mine. She looks up at me, her dark eyes flashing with mischief and the sweet, electric thrill of a job extraordinarily well done.
“Where to next, partner?” she asks, biting her lower lip.
I smile, pulling her a little closer. Wherever we wants.