Page 51 of Strictly Business

Nicholas reaches for the glossy magazine laying on top of the kitchen island. “I’ve been meaning to hire a decorator for my place.” My gaze flickers to the furniture layouts scattered across the pages. “But I want you to do it.”

My brows knit together, unsure I heard him correctly. “Wait… you wantmeto decorate your apartment?”

“Yes.”

I’m silent for a moment, my mind spinning. “But… why me?” I ask, still confused. “You could hire someone else, someone who—”

“I could,” he interrupts, offering the magazine to me with a flick of his wrist. “But I want you to do it. You’ve still got that card I gave you, right?”

“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “I do.”

“Good.” His lips curl slightly. “Use it. Buy whatever you want. I trust you.”

My breath catches in my throat as he steps closer, his eyes locking on my hand. I don’t move, frozen as his fingers brush mine, testing whether I’ll pull away. I don’t.

He lifts my hand between us, and his thumb traces the diamond ring on my finger slowly, before he brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of my hand.

“It looks good on you,” he murmurs, the words sending a shiver down my spine.

I gulp, my pulse skipping. I’m dizzy from his gaze, the warmth of his touch, and the way his presence fills the room.

Finally, he lets go of my hand, his fingers lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “I’ll be back later.” He steps back, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “You have the place to yourself until then. But I don’t want you hiding from me again. Got it?”

My chest tightens, my heart pounding in my ears as I meet his gaze. I straighten my shoulders, fighting the flutter in my stomach. “Got it,” I whisper,

Without another word, his footsteps echo down the hall as he disappears into the elevator.

I step into his room, the door slightly cracked open, and close it quietly behind me. My eyes take in every inch of his room. The space where he sleeps, where he works, where he… does whatever else.

It’s not like any room I’ve ever seen before. Dark wood furniture, sleek and modern and utterly him. His bed is large—too large for someone who sleeps alone, I tell myself, even as my gaze flickers over the sheets. I quickly look away, biting my lip as my thoughts wander.

How many other women have been in here? Used this bathroom, this bed, stood in this very spot I’m standing in now?

I turn toward the bathroom, pulling myself away from my own spiraling thoughts, and step into the shower. The water turns on, and I close my eyes tilting my head back, letting the water envelop me.

My eyes drift to his products, neatly arranged along the glass shelf—shampoo, conditioner, body wash. They’re all high-end. Expensive. But it’s the scent that catches my attention. I lean forward, inhaling deeply. It’s not just any fragrance. It’s his smell, mixed with wood and something spicy. My teeth tug at my bottom lip when my legs start to shake, my core throbbing as I imagine him in the shower, pouring body lotion onto his hand before he dips down and—

I snap out of the fantasy when I realize the shower head is between my legs, hitting my clit with delicious pressure, and I let out a moan, pulling it away.

This is so wrong. He’s my boss. I’m in his shower, using the shower head he uses every day, to make myself come. My cheeks heat as I finish showering, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing in my core.

Once I’m done, I step out of the shower, reaching for one of his thick towels. It’s soft and fluffy, the fabric clinging to my skin as I wrap it around myself. I hesitate for a moment, looking outinto his bedroom. The room smells like him. Cologne, wood, and something familiar. I take a step out of the bathroom, my fingers grazing the dark wood of his desk. There’s a stack of papers—some documents I can’t make out, some pens, a half-drunk cup of scotch. But it’s the bed that pulls me in.

The sheets are soft, white, too perfect. And before I know what I’m doing, my fingers trail over the comforter, and I catch myself wondering if the pillows smell like him. The thought of them, of the way his scent would linger on the fabric, makes my stomach flutter.

I take a seat on his bed, my heart pounding. I imagine him here, in this space. My fingers are still slightly damp from the shower as I slide them over the comforter. I can feel him here, even though he’s not.

Before I know it, my head sinks into his pillow, closing my eyes as images of him flood my thoughts. His voice. The way he looks at me. I can’t stop it. I picture him standing over me, his hands on my skin, and suddenly, the tension building inside me becomes too much.

My fingers move before I can even think to stop them, slipping under the towel, tracing along my skin. Every thought pulls me deeper, his touch, the look in his eyes. I can’t think about anything else as my fingers move closer to the spot aching, begging for attention. The pressure builds, and my body responds to the thoughts swirling in my mind.

God, how long has it been since someone touched me? Liam and I hadn’t slept together in a long time—probably since he’d been out fucking someone else—and I only had my own fingers to satiate me. But since moving into Nicholas’s penthouse, I haven’t dared to touch myself, too aware that I’m in his place, his bed, his room.

But the pressure is too much to ignore, and I let go, imagining him in this bed, his hands on me, his voice in my ear as I lose myself in the fantasy.

A moan spills free from my lips as I circle my clit, feeling how wet I’ve gotten from a simple fantasy. My towel pulls apart and I widen my legs, keeping my eyes closed, too focused on the pleasure curling up my spine as my fingers move faster, needing the pressure to explode.

You’re my fiancée, Amara.

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