Page 20 of Redeem Me

Ivy in her wet, tight white t-shirt.

Fucking. Hell.

No wonder Jared was staring. I almost wouldn’t blame the guy – almost.

The thin white cotton is completely transparent over her tits. Dark rosy nipples are almost visible and the lace outline of her bra. It’s impossible not to stare. My cock thickens in my shorts.

‘Owen seems to be coming out of himself a bit,’ Ivy says, sliding into the seat opposite and grabbing a grape from the centre of the table.

‘He’s not the only one.’ I tear my eyes from her chest and scowl at Jared’s retreating back. ‘You should get changed.’

‘Me?’ She laughs, then glances down. ‘Oh, gosh.’ She swipes a napkin from the table and tucks it over her t-shirt. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise.’

‘It’s a spectacular sight, but one I’d prefer you didn’t treat my gardener to.’ My tone is thick with disapproval.

Her mouth drops open, but the kids trundle back to the table before she can articulate a reply. Thankfully, they keep a steady stream of conversation flowing because I have no idea what to say to the woman opposite. The woman I can’t stop stealing glances at. The woman I’m imagining bending over this table and fucking into next week.

‘Can we swim this afternoon?’ Owen asks, his eyes bright for once.

Ivy cocks her head at me. ‘If your dad says it’s okay, I’ll take you into the pool.’

Ivy in a swimsuit. Fuck.

‘I’ll keep them safe, I promise. I’m no Pamela Anderson,’ she laughs, glancing down at her chest, ‘but I’m a pretty good swimmer.’

The napkin is soaked and is also now completely transparent. Someone is testing my restraint.

‘I’d say you could give her a pretty good run for her money.’ I force my focus from her breasts to her face in time to see her look of surprise, followed shortly by a sliver of a smirk. Our eyes lock and electricity crackles in the air, tethering us together with an invisible thread.

‘Can we, Daddy, please?’ Owen begs.

‘Sure, I don’t see why not.’ I ruffle his hair, and he holds his hand up for a fist bump.

I need to get out of here. Time to go to my office in the city. Ivy in a swimsuit is not a sight me or my dick need imprinted into my sex-starved subconscious.

Chapter Ten

IVY

July

In the three weeks I’ve been living with Caelon Beckett, I’ve learnt three things about him. One, he’s a workaholic. He spends every night in his office while I sit on his insanely comfortable couch reading or binge-watchingLove Island.Two, he is ridiculously good with his children when he does emerge from his office. Three, he gets up at the crack of dawn to work out. That’s how he maintains his mouth-watering physique.

Perving on my hot new boss in his home gym is my favourite morning pastime, closely followed by googling the ever-living shit out of him.

I’ve got into a routine of waking before six and this morning is no different. The summer sun leaks in through the cracks on either side of the curtains. I pull the bed covers back and creep down to the kitchen to make coffee before the kids wake up, and before Liz comes in to make breakfast for everyone.

As I creep down the thick-carpeted stairs, bare foot, the faint sound of the radio radiates from the gym at the far end of the house. Feeling like the Pink Panther, I follow the noisealong the corridor until I reach the gym. The laundry room is next door, so if I get busted I can pretend that’s where I’m heading. So far, Caelon’s always been too engrossed in his weights to notice me. I’m hoping this morning is no different.

I peep inside, hoping to steal a glimpse of my hot boss, but it’s empty. I must have missed him.

Caelon has been mostly avoiding me. We’ve shared a few mealtimes, which would have been awkward if it weren’t for Orla’s incessant stream of conversation. Sometimes I think I feel the weight of his stare, but every time I dare to look up, he whips his eyes away.

The tension is palpable. I wish he’d just chill out for a bit. He must have realised by now it’s not like I’m going to leap on him. Even if I fantasise about doing precisely that each night in bed, knowing he’s only along the corridor from me. I’m only human, and he is spank-bank perfection personified. Throw in the tortured edge, and the big soulless eyes, and he’s my own personal type of kryptonite.

There are two pictures of his late wife in the house; a family photo on the mantelpiece in the sitting room and a wedding photo in the grand drawing room. Isabella Beckett was a beautiful woman. It’s easy to see where the kids get their stunning looks. Both their mother and father could front a Hugo Boss modelling campaign. Which, given I’m forced to live with their widowed dad, isn’t helpful for my ovaries or my unruly hormones. Especially when I know what his hands are capable of. I’ve tried my best not to imagine the rest of him.

Tried.

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