A handful of years back, I received a $2,000 tax return that burned a hole in my pocket for weeks until I finally compromised and splurged on a new pair of shoes before stashing the rest in savings. I imagine a trillion dollars could burn quite the hole if a person let it.
“Westcott,” he says as we turn a corner. His phone is pressed against his ear. I hadn’t heard it vibrate. In fact, I haven’t heard it vibrate once this afternoon. It was also quiet at dinner last night.
That can’t be normal for him …
Did he turn it off—for me?
“Yes,” he says, “that’s fine. Tell them I’ll handle it first thing Monday. And don’t do anything until I get back.”
Trey ends the call, slides his phone out of sight, and clears his throat. “Sorry about that.”
I wave it off. “It’s fine. Work doesn’t stop because you’re out of town.”
I tell myself not to read into any of this, that a man with his upbringing has kindness and good manners in his DNA. He probably treats everyone in his personal life this way. His reputation as a shark in the office is probably nothing more than a tactic that helps him close business deals and keep his employees from stepping out of line. No one respects a pushover.
“Is there anything you’d like to do on your last night here? We fly out first thing in the morning.”
Flashbacks of last night fill my head. My stomach flips at the thought of his tongue flicking between my thighs, and I shift in my seat.
“I’m up for … whatever,” I say, hoping he can read between the lines—and praying his driver and the three security guards with us don’t. In a perfect world, I’d exercise restraint. I’d suggest a museum or a movie, something neutral and unsexy. But last night’s been playing in my mind on a loop all day, and I’ve been craving another release ever since.
It’s Trey’s turn to shift. He loosens his tie, his lips turning up at the side. “Whatever … sounds like a plan.”
Once again, we’re on the same page.
The chauffeur deposits us under a black awning covered in the hotel’s monogram, and the guard in the front seat takes us inside. We board the elevator, and Trey’s fingers trace my lower back before trailing lower. A spray of goose bumps cover my flesh, and I stay still as a statue so as not to capture the guard’s attention.
When we arrive on our floor, a man and a much younger woman are waiting to board. The woman nudges her partner, nodding toward Trey with giant eyes and gaping, overfilled lips. But before they have a chance to say anything, the guard sweeps us away to our room.
The door isn’t halfway closed before he pins me against the wall. Lifting my arms over my head, he captures my wrists in his grip as his mouth trails tingling kisses down my neck. I writhe, heart beating in my throat, barely able to feel the marble floor beneath my weightless body.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he all but growls, his cinnamon breath hot against my skin. “Every time I look at you, it’s all I can do not to touch you.”
He releases his hold and cups my cheek in his hand before his mouth crushes mine. Inhaling the scent of coffee shops and bookstores and Seattle sea breeze, I breathe him in and let myself melt against the magnetic heat of his body. His hips press against mine, his bulge prominent and unapologetic. I climb into his arms with an urgency unlike any I’ve known before.
Cupping my ass, he lifts me, carrying me to the bedroom suite and depositing me on the freshly made bed. Climbing over me, he tastes my lips once more as his hand unfastens the buttons of my blouse one by one, until my bare stomach is exposed to the icy air of our hotel room.
His fingertips trace my flesh, followed by his mouth, but, with each inch closer to my pulsing arousal, my body tenses.
Sitting up, I place my hand against his chest and gently push him to his back. Before he has a chance to protest, I straddle him, working his zipper.
He doesn’t argue. Most men don’t when your hands are deep into their pants.
I free his cock, palming his impressive girth before bringing my lips to meet the tip.
Dragging my tongue along his veiny ridges, his thighs go limber beneath me as he melts into the mattress the instant I take him into my mouth. A moment later, he attempts to pull me closer to him—but it’s still daytime outside, and the break in the blackout curtains spills light onto the bed.
We’re not in the dark. Not completely.
There are things I’m not ready for him to see, things I don’t want to explain—not here, not yet.
I ignore his insistence and suck him harder, faster, until he gives up … and gives in. When he finally explodes in my mouth, I swallow once before disappearing into the bathroom to freshen up.
He’s still on the bed when I come out, his fly zipped but belt buckle undone.
Pulling me into his lap, he whispers, “Your turn,” before burying his face into my neck, caressing the curve of my hips, and working his way to my waistband.
I place a hand on his chest, leaning in to nibble his ear, and I whisper in return, “Later.”
And I fully intend to cash in on that promise …
He frowns, brows furrowed. His lips part, as if he’s about to question me, but I silence him with a kiss before climbing off.
“I’m going to grab some fresh air,” I say as I head to the balcony.
Once outside, the wind sweeps my hair over my shoulders, and I keep an eye on the glass slider, fully expecting him to step out any moment. But he leaves me alone, as if he knows it’s what I want right now.
Someday I’ll tell Trey everything.
But that day is not today.
I’m enjoying myself too much to ruin it.
Thirty-Seven
Sophie
Past
“We need to get you up and moving.” A nurse in yellow scrubs bursts into my hospital recovery suite like a ray of freaking sunshine, beaming so bright the apples of her cheeks are as red as cherries. “The sooner you start getting around, the easier your recovery will be.”
She positions a walker by the front door and comes around the side of my bed.
“Mom, you’re welcome to help me,” she says to my mother. “We have handrails along the hallways, but we definitely don’t want Sophie on her own. Need someone there just in case.”
My mom and I exchange looks, both of us knowing it should be Nolan helping me.
The nurse offers a bent arm, and I hook my hand in the crook, slowly swinging my legs off the side of the bed until my socked feet meet the hard floor.
My C-section incision burns as yesterday’s morphine works its way out of my system, and my legs ache from immobility.
Baby Girl Ames was born at 12:02 pm yesterday. Eight pounds, twelve ounces. Twenty inches long. Full head of dark hair like her father. Nolan stayed by my side during the surgery, brushing my hair and offering me looks of assurance since all I could see was a blue sheet and all I could hear were the beeps of the machines that registered our heartbeats.
I’ll never forget the doctor declaring, “It’s a girl!” and the nurses cheering.
I’ll also never forget that the second she was out, Nolan flew to the nurses’ side as they weighed and measured and tested her. When they were done, one of them showed me a pink face swaddled tight in a white hospital blanket before placing her back in the clear bassinet and rolling her out of the OR.
Nolan went with her …
I’d never seen such light in his eyes, and as the doctor sewed me up, I thought maybe … just maybe … he’d had a change of heart about all of this.
“Come on, Sophie. You can do this.” Mom takes my other arm and together, we stand. I’m unsteady at first. Then the nurse positions the walker and IV stand and offers an encouraging nod. I grip the bar. Mom moves the IV, hand on my lower back.
“You’re doing great,” the nurse tells us. “I’ll let you two roam a bit and I’ll be back to check on you shortly.”
With stunted, cautious steps, I make my way to the hall. A sign o
utside the door points left for the nursery.
I want to see her … I want to see her one last time before the social worker comes in and I sign my life away.
“Have you heard from Nolan?” I ask.
They had me sign the birth certificate yesterday, pressing my fingertips into black ink and placing them in the boxes next to my daughter’s inky footprints. The spot for Nolan’s signature was blank, which I thought was funny since I was under the impression he hadn’t left the baby’s side since she breathed her first breath.
“I tried to call him,” Mom says. “But he didn’t answer.”
She doesn’t disguise the disgust in her voice.
Up ahead, a row of glass windows paints a view of the nursery. Babies lined up. Some sleeping. Some squirming. Some crying. Some sucking rubber pacifiers and staring blankly above. All of them swaddled. Tiny. Innocent. A man and woman in regular clothes stand beside a bassinet in the corner, talking to a nurse in head-to-toe pink with a stethoscope around her neck.
The closer I get, the more I recognize the man … the broad shoulders, thick hair the color of coffee, the twinkle in his gaze when he grins. He places his arm around the lanky, raven-haired woman, whose face I can’t see. And she leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. A second later, he presses a kiss against her forehead and pulls her tight into his arms.
This must be the adoptive mother …
… and clearly she’s more than a “friend.”
I suck in a breath and pray my mom doesn’t notice—but she does.
“Don’t make a scene, Mom. Please,” I say.
And she doesn’t. Hand steady on my lower back, she keeps her gaze trained forward. “Let’s head the other way. I heard the view is better than that end of the hall.”
My lips quaver with each step.
Two thick tears slide down my cheeks.
“I hate him, Mom,” I say. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.”
“I know.” Her voice is low, a cushion of sympathy. Her gaze is distant, as if she’s retrieving a painful memory from her own personal collection. And now I get it. I get why she felt the way she did about my father. He lied. He betrayed her in the worst way. “But you’re going to be okay, Sophie. You’re strong. Stronger than you give yourself credit for. A lot stronger than I was …”
I swallow the hard lump in my throat and continue on, each step bringing me closer to my full recovery. And with each burning, painful step, I make a promise to myself—that I’ll never fall for another man like Nolan Ames again.
Thirty-Eight
Trey
Present
“I left for two days.” I slam the phone down as Broderick takes the chair opposite my desk on Monday morning. “I want Pesek fired. And I want Monrovian to replace him. Immediately.”
Over the weekend, it came to light that one of our marketing interns has been harassed over the past three months by a certain married executive. He’s lured her with jobs that don’t exist as well as career-oriented threats he has no ability to carry out. I never cared for the blowhard when we hired him, but he had the reputation as one of the best marketing hires in the industry, so I took a chance.
But now the girl’s parents are threatening legal action—understandably so. The last thing I need when I’m trying to acquire a “family” business is a shit storm like this smearing the Westcott name. Not to mention we’re on the heels of going public with our engagement in the coming weeks.
This could overshadow everything.
Lifting my receiver, I call Mona and have her summon Pesek to my office.
“She’s willing to accept a private settlement,” Broderick says. “She’s asking for five million, but I think we can get her down to two and an ironclad NDA.”
“Give her whatever she wants.” I turn my chair, studying the Chicago skyline and its ironically sunny disposition today.
Broderick leaves.
I don’t have time for this today.
Mona calls my phone. I answer on the first ring.
“Mr. Westcott, I’m told Gary Pesek didn’t report to the office today,” she says. “Apparently he turned in his notice via email earlier this morning.”
Fucking coward.
I’ll deal with him one way or another.
I hang up the phone, only to have it ring once more. Without checking the caller ID, I answer it with a brusque, “What?”
“Hello to you too …” It’s Sophie.
Exhaling, I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Rough morning?” she asks.
“Something like that.”
“Anything I can do to help?” Her voice is low, and I picture her in her office, hand cupped over her receiver, a brand of mischievousness in her ocean eyes as her full lips tug up at the sides.
“Yes, actually. You can report to my office. Now.”
It takes eleven tortuous minutes for my future wife to saunter into my space, her hips swaying with each high-heeled step. Apparently the word “now” wasn’t enough to light a fire in her leisurely pace.
“Lock the door behind you.” I point. My cock swells as she fastens the deadbolt, and I loosen my tie.
I meet her halfway, crushing her upturned lips with a kiss as I grab a handful of her ass. Pulling her against me, I untuck the hem of her shirt from her tight skirt, sliding my palms up her silky-smooth skin until I reach the lace cups of her bra. Tugging the fabric aside, I lift her blouse and take a rosebud nipple between my teeth before swirling my tongue around its ridges.
Sophie tosses her head back, cupping my head in her hands.
When I’ve sampled her enough, I lead her to my desk, positioning myself between her spread thighs. She eyes the open blinds behind me and her body turns rigid.
“No one can see us all the way up here,” I say. “We’re practically in the fucking clouds.”
She swallows, her body still frozen beneath my touch.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.” The enigmatic minx reaches for my belt, unzips my fly, and takes me in her palm.
I place a hand over hers. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I don’t like being on display.”
“Fine.” I leave her on my desk, legs wide and panties peeking from beneath her skirt, and I make my rounds to every window in my office, tugging the blinds closed. When I come back, I claim her mouth with a punishing kiss and slide my hands between her creamy thighs until I reach the damp fabric. “I want you, Sophie. All of you …”
Without a word, she kisses me back as she maneuvers off my desk, pulls her skirt up to her hips, and tugs her panties down. Bunching the lacy fabric, she tosses them in the middle of my desk before turning and gifting me with a full display of her silky ass. I plunge my fingers into her wet pussy from behind. She grinds against me, palms splayed on my desk.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” I whisper in her ear as I lean over her. Over the weekend we discussed birth control, and the week that followed the contract finalization, we both tested clean. I wanted to ensure everything was in order.
Head slanted, she bites her lower lip and nods. “Yes …”
I place my cock at her entrance, giving her one inch of me at a time. Her pussy is as soft as it is tight, as slick as it is hot. She’s dripping wet, fucking me as her body accepts mine.
A moan escapes her lips.
“Shh,” I remind her.
I pull her closer as we fuck, kissing the back of her neck and gathering a fist of her glossy hair as I stretch her with each thrust. With my next meeting in five minutes, it’s a frenzied rush to fulfillment, but what we lack this morning I have no doubt we’ll make up for tonight.
Running my hand down the front of her thighs, I stop at the mound of her fevered flesh and rub circles against her swollen clit. What I wouldn’t give to taste her—if only we had more time.
“Are you close?” I whisper against her ear, plunging deeper, harder.
“Mm
hm.” She leans forward, gripping the ledge of my desk as her heart-shaped ass begs for more.
We match rhythms.
Her breath shallows.
The tightness between my legs warns that the release is near, and the instant her pussy tightens against my cock, I rear hot and hard against her, spilling into her with unapologetic spasms until she’s filled to the hilt with my seed.
When it’s over, I turn her to face me, tasting her mouth one last time before she slides her panties up, tugs her skirt into place, and disappears into the private restroom in the back of my office to clean up.
Mona rings me to let me know my conference call with our e-commerce division is on line three.
“Tell them I need a few more minutes,” I say.
Sophie emerges a moment later, rosy cheeks, blouse tucked into a straightened skirt, hair slightly more tousled than it was before, but nothing obvious.
Her gaze falls to the blinking light on my phone, indicating I’ve got a call on hold.
“See you at home?” she asks, on her way out.
“Wait.”
She stops, and I go to her, taking her hand and pulling her close. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever fucked on that desk.”
It’s the truth.
I don’t cross-contaminate my work space with my personal liaisons, but for my future wife—and a body I’ve been dying to fuck since she strutted into my office that first day—I’ll make an exception.
“Is that your way of making me feel special? Because it’s not necessary.” Her eyes shimmer, the brightest thing in this room. She can say she doesn’t want this to turn emotional until she’s blue in the face, but everyone wants to be told they’re special.
“No,” I lie. I do want her to feel special … because she is. To me. For some strange and unexpected reason. “I just thought you should know.”
She shows herself out, and I take my call, tracing my fingers along the handprints she left on my polished desktop, inhaling the trail of sensual perfume that mingles with a trace of her sweet arousal.
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