Villain Ch 1739. A Bug
The ride home was smooth.
Too smooth.
Allen sat in the back of Shea's sleek black car, one arm propped against the window, the other draped over his thigh like he didn't just have seven women take turns using him like a luxury mattress. His face was neutral, almost unreadable—except for that one damn corner of his mouth that kept twitching upward.
A grin. A real one.
He kept fighting it down.
Failed.
Twice.
The driver, professional to the bone, didn't say a word. Not when Allen climbed in wearing yesterday's button-down shirt—still missing a button and definitely smelling like a cologne that wasn't his. Not when he caught the unmistakable red print near Allen's collarbone. Not even when Allen chuckled softly to himself, head tilted against the window like he'd just remembered something very illegal and very satisfying.
Honestly, the man deserved a raise for that level of composure.
