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Whatever it is, it’s the only warning I get from Magnus Heron.
He gasps and I feel him swell, fully in me, stretching me apart.
My body clenches around him.
Movement stops.
Then I’m filled to absolute perfection with dense, hot ropes of his seed.
I come with him, swallowing a scream, and everything goes white.
The feral groan he makes when he empties his essence etches on my brain, and I’m just as sure his release burns his initials inside me for life.* * *I wake up, far too comfortable for my lumpy bed.
After I blink several times, I realize I’m under luxurious white overstuffed linens with a full view of the Chicago skyline.
I’m so sore it makes me smile.
No earthly clue what time it is, but it’s daylight. If I’m playing stand-in CEO, I should get to work.
I glance beside me, where Mag still sleeps like a bear, his huge chest heaving softly with these growly sounds that aren’t quite snores. Good.
He needs the rest.
I wrap myself in the sheet and pull it off the bed with me so I can collect my clothes. I find my panties first on the floor near the bed.
My dress and bra? Who knows. They’re totally MIA.
We were on the window seat the last time we did it, the blinds open to the night, Mag driving into me from behind. My butt still burns pleasantly from the crisp strike of his hand as he made me come, adding this biting heat to our last release.
“Where are you going?” he asks, cracking one vivid blue eye open.
I turn to answer and realize he’s sitting up. My eyes are glued to a chiseled beast who can’t be mortal.
Sweet memories flood my mind and heat pours into my cheeks. We went hard at least seven times over the past forty-four hours, if my memory is accurate.
I’m torn between wanting him inside me again and just wanting to cuddle him.
Magnus Heron doesn’t strike me as either a morning sex fiend or cuddle bug. Though he did hold me for hours last night, after we screwed each other senseless.
That’s how we spent our New Year’s Eve, barely stopping for visiting hours with Jordan at the hospital and fixing him some food. He’s been sleeping a lot, too, whenever he’s not holed up in the sunroom with his phone, video games, and all the frozen snacks a teenager can eat.
Whatever else I expected on January second, it wasn’t waking up in the Twilight Zone.
Lucky me, this isn’t the kind where the Earth is falling into the sun or everybody has pig faces.
“Brina? Are you okay?” he asks. “You look frazzled.”
Oops. I was so busy gawking I forgot to answer.
“Holiday’s over. I should get to the office,” I say, shaking my head.
He looks from the skyline to me with a sad expression that breaks my heart, and nods.
“Right. No one out there can see you, FYI. We’re too high up—”
“We’re only on the forty-seventh floor,” I say. “The buildings out there are way taller.”
He grins.
“Whatever you say, Miss Modesty. You certainly weren’t worried last night when I held you against the glass and made you watch yourself coming on my cock.”
Instant butterflies.
Until him, I didn’t even know they could be dirty butterflies, either.
He walks to the nightstand beside the bed—completely comfortable nude—picks up a remote, and the curtains close across that glass wall. “You don’t need the sheet, sweetheart. I’ve already seen you, and you don’t need to go to the office today.”
Oh—so maybe the ruler of the world is into lingering mornings?
“But it’s the first day back. All the staff should be piling in, ready to go after a long holiday.”
He moves to the window seat, picks up my dress and bra, and brings them over to where I’m still crouched on the floor. He holds the garments out, and I take them. Then he picks me up.
“Where are we—what are we—”
He lays me on the bed and slides in beside me.
“If you think people are raring to go, you don’t know anything about how miserably slow the first week of January can be. The notes for the airline presentation are done. I approved Hugo’s creatives while you were napping after we fucked the first two times yesterday. There’s nothing pressing there. Spend the first real day of the year with me. January first doesn’t count when everybody’s still hung over from champagne and ham dinners. Stay?”
Whoa. That’s one request from my boss I never saw coming.
“I don’t know. My boss can be a cyclops-sized asshole,” I say, scratching my chin in mock-thought.
“If you try to abuse the classics like that again, I’m chaining you up and reading you Homer.” He puts his arms around me and holds me tight. “And if your horrible boss tries to be a jackass again, let me know. I’ll kick his ass.”
