Abigail
It was in fact, Finnegan. He sat on a large leather couch near the back of the arena, his powerful legs spread wide with one arm draped along the back of the seat.
A glass of amber liquid, whiskey, probably, dangled from his other hand. I would know that imposing figure anywhere. He dripped of power and that rare dominance he seemed to exude without having to life his finger.
What was my boss doing here?
A blonde woman sat next to him, her fingers trailing up his forearm, her body angled toward him like a sunflower thirsting for the sun, which was hilarious considering Wolfe was cold as fuck, except of course his body. There was nothing cold about his gorgeous, magma hot body. The black mask covered his face completely, just like everyone else's, but I knew.
