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He tsks. “Oh no. Did I give you permission to take your hands off the bench?”
I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to know he’s got an evil grin plastered there. My heart rate shoots up as I start to put his plan together.
I move toward the jets of water. “I think you’re right. We’re late. We better get ready.”
His rich laughter bounces off the walls of the shower. “That was a quick about face, baby.” He pulls me back into his arms again before adding. “I really do need to get upstairs to The Rooftop for a breakfast meeting, but I promise you…” He hugs me closer as the water sluices down our bodies. “Tonight, before we leave for our night out on the town, I’m going to lube up a butt plug and shove it up that tight, virgin asshole of yours. You’ll wear it for me all night—in public—knowing that as soon as we get home, I’m going to take it out and shove my cock deep inside you instead.”
“Oh, no…” I feel my knees wobbling under me just thinking about his dirty promise.
“Oh, yes… And I guarantee, you’re going to love every second of it.”
I highly doubt that.
“Now, as much as I’d rather stay here with you, I need to go. The guests I’m meeting are not the kind of men who are used to being kept waiting.”
Dex leans in and places a soft kiss on my forehead before opening the glass door and leaving me to finish my shower alone and horny as hell.
An hour later, I’ve enjoyed a cup of the coffee Dex took the time to brew for me before leaving for his meeting. I also ate not just one, but two, of the flaky croissants that have magically become a morning staple in our kitchen.
Our kitchen.
How quickly life has changed since the night of the Met Gala.
In the few quiet moments I’ve had to myself in the last whirlwind week, I’ve tried my best to keep a few protective walls up around my heart, but Dex’s playful affection has made it hard to stay guarded. Each day spent working together has brought us closer together. And each evening eating dinner… watching movies… fucking like rabbits…
It scares me how often I think of him when we aren’t together. I tell myself we’re moving too fast, but then I remember we started down this path decades ago. Dex was right when he said we’ve been in a fifteen-year game of foreplay.
Enough thinking about Dex.
While finishing my shower, I decided this morning would be a good day to pull my neglected notebook out of my safe and add a few updates. Knowing Dex is in important meetings that will keep him busy for a few hours ensures I’ll have the privacy I need.
I lightly stroke my hand across the worn leather cover of one of my most prized possessions. I open the thick ledger to the last page with my handwriting. The date on the entry is from the night of the Met Gala.
The night I became a widow.
How odd that such a horrible night has led me to such happiness. I stop short of feeling happy that Tristan is dead, yet I don’t try to deny the sense of relief at realizing my disastrous marriage has come to an end.
I shudder thinking about just how close I came to losing The Whitney, hell to complete financial ruin for that matter. I can’t imagine how different my life would be if Dex hadn’t been able to help me pay off Tristan’s irresponsible loans with his creditors.
I feel another inkling of shame that I ever treated him badly just for doing what his father raised him to do. The things he said to me on the roof were harsh, but I needed to hear them. He was right, and more than once I’ve caught myself looking at pictures of my dad and I in new ways. I think it’s normal for kids to idolize their parents, and when my mom died he was all I had, so I think it was even more intense for me.
Which is why I willfully ignored his part in how The Whitney was really run.
Dex and Simon’s fathers were just as important to the success of this hotel as my own father was. It seems so simple and obvious now, but I know that my father wasn’t an innocent bystander—and I’m not either.
Sure, he’s promised that I’ll never need to know the gritty details of what he and Simon do, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have to accept both sides of The Whitney. More than just accept it, I’m finding myself grateful for Dex’s connections to the underworld. They helped him ferret out who was behind the letters demanding money, and he’s assured me the payment demands are a thing of the past. When I pressed him for more information, he refused to tell me what he had to do to make the loan sharks slink away for good.
And, if that wasn’t enough, he even helped me locate investors willing to buy me out of the troubled real estate projects Tristan had left in ruins. Once we close on that deal, my bank account will once again be flush with cash. All thanks to Dex’s help.
To think that I ever viewed him as beneath me, less-than, or detrimental to The Whitney seems insane to me now.
The ring of my cell phone makes me jump and I glance down to see it’s Rowan calling. I’ve been so busy playing house with Dex that I’ve been avoiding her.
I tap the answer button. “Hey there. How’s it going?”
“It’s about time you answered your phone. Haven’t you seen my texts?” she complains.
“Yeah, well I’ve had my hands full these last few weeks.”
