New York Billionaires Series

“Yes, I rather think I did.”

“Have you figured out who gave us the glass dick, by the way?”

I chuckle. “The one you deliberately broke?”

“Wasn’t deliberate. If you remember, I was very focused on something else at the time.”

“Oh, I remember,” I say. “Carter gave it to us.”

Victor snorts. “Of course. The asshole. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Think it was a sign?”

“Yes.” He pushes back from the table and takes my empty plate with him to the sink. It’s as rare a display of domesticity as the laughter he’d let out earlier. “That he thinks I’m a dick.”NôvelDrama.Org exclusive content.

“Is that your role in your foursome?”

“Our foursome,” he mutters. He returns to the table and leans over me, mouth hovering inches from mine. “Yes. With my business partners, I’m generally the one with the most practical business sense.”

“You mean you’re the most ruthless.”

“The world is like that,” he says. “The strong and the weak. The takers and the taken. My grandfather made that very clear. I’ve always known which category I want to fall into.”

“I think you’re succeeding.”

He kisses me, long and searching. “We can’t have a foursome,” he murmurs. “Will a twosome work?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A bath.”

“For both of us?”

“Yes. The tub in my bathroom is huge, but I’ve never used it. I imagine we could put it to interesting use.”

Over his shoulder, my eyes clock Bonnie. She enters the kitchen, but seeing us, she turns on her heel. Giving us privacy.

I slide my hands up his neck. “You’re sure your office isn’t more attractive?”

“Compared to you? Absolutely not.”

His tub is big enough for two, even if we’re a snug fit with his tall frame. I lean against his chest in the water and close my eyes at the rising pleasure. His fingers have become expert, teasing between my legs, one hand on my soapy breast. His hard length is trapped between our bodies, digging deliciously into my back.

He puts his mouth by my ear. “Good idea?”

I give a shaky laugh, but it cuts off as he slips a finger inside. “Yes. Very.”

“You’re not too sore from yesterday?”

“A bit. The warm water is helping. Was that your plan?” I turn around to catch his eyes. They’re fixed on my breasts, rising above the water’s surface.

The sex we’d had last night had been rough and hard and I’d loved every single moment of it. It had also left my inner thighs sore this morning.

“It occurred to me, yes.” He adds another finger and my body stretches to fit him, aching in the sweetest of ways. “Think you can take me in the water?”

I lean my head against his shoulder and close my eyes. His thumb has started to circle my clit and it’s hard to think around the rising tide of pleasure.

“Yes,” I whisper.

His chuckle is dark in my ear, but he makes me orgasm first, taking his time to warm me up. And when we shift in the bath, and he pushes inside of me, we both groan at the sensation.

It’s soft and quiet, a stark contrast to last night.

Afterwards, we’re silent and slow. Each movement feels heavy and I don’t want to speak, don’t want to break the magic.

We lie on our usual sides of his king-size bed. The room is cast in shadows, but they’re soft, comforting ones. I close my eyes at the sated tiredness in my body. He’ll be the death of me, this man. I can’t wait to see where it leads.

“Cecilia,” he says.

I turn on my side to face him. His profile is clear against the faint light of the city, the high forehead and the straight nose. “Yes?”

“I haven’t had someone like you in my life for a very long time,” he says. “I’m not always going to know how to handle it.”

In my chest, my heart does a double take. “I’m aware.”

“I’m going to fuck up, Myers. Probably a lot.”

“I know that, too.”

The words hang in the air. Be patient with me.

I reach out and find his arm, curling my hand around it. A wrong word from me could shatter this olive branch, the weakness, the honesty. So I give him an out.

“When you do, I’ll order myself flowers from you again.”

He chuckles. “Good. Plan for that.”

I fold myself against his side. After a moment, he turns, and a heavy arm wraps itself around my waist. I bury my face against his chest, the tickle of his chest hair, and breathe in his scent. He might be the most complicated, infuriating man I’ve ever known. He’s also the most hard-working, layered, dedicated one.

We might not be a real married couple, but I’m hopelessly in love with my husband.

I’m sitting at my desk on Saturday when the phone rings. Thank God, I think. I’m looking into grave upkeep for my parents, brother and grandfather, not trusting Brad with it, and a distraction is welcome.

Especially this one, I think, seeing the name on my screen. “Hello, Mrs. St. Clair.”

“Oh,” she says. Taken aback by the name? It’s hers, after all. “Hello, Mr. St. Clair.”

“How did the day go?”