Page 55 of Manhattan Bossholes

Vincent picked up his tempo, and the way he was pressing against me brought me closer with each thrust. When my orgasm finally hit, it was like I was free-falling—my body shattered, pleasure exploding through me as I screamed his name, my voice frenzied.

Within a few seconds, Vincent’s satisfied grunt joined my cries, his body collapsing against mine as we both tumbled onto the bed, panting, spent, and utterly content.

We lay there for a moment, both of us catching our breath, our bodies still tangled together.

“Okay, now I’m starving,” I finally managed after my breathing evened out.

Vincent laughed. “I’d say we earned our breakfast. Let’s go.”

He found an old pair of gym shorts for me, and we padded out to the kitchen together. Now I could see exactly how grand his place was.

I tried not to stare.

“Quite the view,” I said, pointing to the windows.

He paused in front of the open refrigerator to look at me. “I like mine better.”

My cheeks went hot. “Stop.”

“Do you want crepes?” Vincent asked. “I have eggs from the farmers’ market, and some of that coffee you like.”

“Hold on, you can make crepes?” I asked. “Like, make them yourself? I assumed you’d have a live-in chef or something.”

He chuckled. “If I had staff on the premises, they’d all be laughing about the noises we’ve been making. Right now, it’s just us—no one’s scheduled to be here for hours. And I can cook because my mom told me every man needs to know how to make one great meal for each time of day. She taught me how to make crepes for breakfast, open-face pear and cheddar sandwiches for lunch, and my dad taught me how to grill the perfect steak.”

“Sounds like your parents are epicures.”

He nodded. “They are. There’s great food in Miami, but she misses the variety here in the city.”

“I get it. And it sounds like your dad misses her.”

He frowned at me. “You picked up on that?”

“He almost came out and said it—kind of hard not to!” I laughed. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Not really,” he said as he gathered ingredients and a crepe pan. “He’ll just fuck it up again. He’s the perfect example of why long-term relationships are hardly ever possible. They’re designed to fail—just like all his marriages.”

My stomach dropped at his tone. He really believed that? I pushed the thought from my head, happy to focus on the here and now.

“Sit,” Vincent pointed at the bar that opened to where he was cooking. “Watch and learn.”

I snorted. “Maybe I already know how to make them?”

“In that case,” he pushed the bowl closer to me. “Go for it.”

I laughed. “Okay, busted. I’m more of a frozen waffles kind of chef. But I’ll be your eager student.”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “That’s not the only thing you’re eager about.”

“Can you blame me?” I gestured to his body.

Vincent had opted to perform his chef duties shirtless and in the grey sweats that hung low enough on his hips to drive me wild. Every time he moved, my eyes were drawn south to watch the show.

Everything he did was watch-worthy. He was so confident in the kitchen that I wondered if he’d had professional help beyond his mother. But then again, that was Vincent. He was good at everything.

Even fucking. Especially fucking.

When he finished cooking, we took our plates outside to his balcony and once again I found myself shocked at how beautiful it was. The city stretched out for miles in every direction, but the spot was landscaped with potted trees and walls of vegetation so it seemed like we were in a private park. With the morning sun warming us, it felt like I was on vacation.