Reciprocity
“Hiss—”
Tristan took a sharp intake of breath, his eyes darkening, his hand on the sofa tightening, his whole body tense.
Is it pain?
Not quite, but an indescribable itch, as if there was something on the tip of his heart, something he wanted to grasp but couldn't, something deep within him that was slightly out of control.
His breathing grew heavy, his gaze fixed on the woman before him.
Cynthia slowly raised her head, a glint of cunning hidden in her eyes, “This is called reciprocity, Mr. Ford.”
Unlike Tristan's restraint, Cynthia was unabashed, with a glaring red mark surrounded by clear teeth marks.
The mark wouldn't fade for a week.
Tristan looked at her exquisite and beautiful face, his gaze growing deeper and more profound.
“Well, you can leave now,” Cynthia gently pushed his chest.
But the man grabbed her wrist, pulling her into his embrace, his large hand gripping the back of her neck.