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“I love you,” I whisper, because it’s simple. Because it’s true. Because it will be true forever.
“I love you, too,” he says, and I fall asleep with his arms around me.
44
TRAP
* * *
She looks so vulnerable in the twilight, like she’s made of china or seashells. But that’s not right, because china and seashells are hard and brittle; they break under the slightest pressure.
Alix is tough.
Alix is strong.
Alix can kick my ass six ways to Sunday, even if I used her so hard last night that we both slept the entire day.
She’s earned her sleep. That’s why I slide out from under the covers, doing everything I can to make sure I don’t wake her. Downstairs, in my office, I find a series of emails from Susan.
She’s drawn up an itinerary, with entries on every quarter hour. She’s confirmed my flight plan, with ground transportation on the other end, along with restaurants and hotels. She’s listed contact information for a dozen different people if anything goes wrong.
The last email is a blank message, but the subject line reads: Good Luck.
Smiling like a fucking idiot, I head back upstairs.
I shower in the guest bath. Creep into my closet and pull on clothes—my black jeans will do, with a matching T-shirt. It’s December, so I add a sweater, the black one with a snag in the right shoulder.
It’s time to wake Alix. She’ll need a little time to pack.
In my absence, she’s rolled over onto her stomach. Her legs are tangled in the sheets, giving me a glimpse of her amazing ass.
This evening’s trip was planned long before last night. This isn’t a trade-off. It’s not payment for services rendered. What I have planned has nothing to do with the gift she gave me last night.
Gift… That hot, tight channel…
I drag my fucking mind out of the gutter. Her trust. I mean her trust. She knows I’ll never hurt her—at least, not in any way she doesn’t jones for.
I lean over and bite her on the ass.
“Trap!” she says, jerking awake.
“Rise and shine, Princess.”
She groans. My cock stirs, ever hopeful, but it’s not that type of groan. “What time is it?”
“Almost six.”
Another moan of despair. “In the morning?”
“Evening. You slept all day. We both did.”
“Then there’s no reason not to go back to bed right now.”
I laugh, because I don’t think she realizes how much that sounds like an invitation. “Hey, Chief Operations Officer. I’m not the one who thought the freeport needed a conference on cybersecurity and museums.”
“Fuck…” she mutters. I try not to preen at the positive effect I’ve had on her. “Forget about the conference,” she says. “I’ll look up some articles on Google.”
“And pass up the chance to see Paris?” I yank the sheets to the foot of the bed. “We’ve got exactly three hours before wheels up at the airfield.”
