Page 44 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

I turn back, trying to ignore the way my heart rate picks up at just hearing my name on her lips. “Yes?”

“Next time, maybe knock before barging in with work demands at late at night.” Her words are stern but there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Ididknock,” I protest.

She pauses, taps her lips, and a faint smile appears. “I suppose you did.”

I return the almost-smile with one of my own. “Good night, wife.”

“Good night.”

I notice she didn’t say “husband” back to me. Of course she fucking didn’t. Why would she? This whole thing is temporary. A business transaction with an expiration date. I need to get my shit together and stop acting like what we have might actually mean something. It doesn’t. It won’t. That’s the fucking point.

For fuck’s sake, get it together Dominic!

I close the door behind me, resting my palm against it briefly. What the hell am I doing? This arrangement is fucking with my head more than I want to admit. I shouldn’t have knocked on her door tonight. Had no business bringing her into resort problems. And then I made it worse, practically begging her to work with me more. On what planet does that make sense?

Christ. Seeing her handle that call like a seasoned negotiator just adds another goddamn layer to this mess in my head.

The same woman who clinically fulfilled that clause last night just saved a million-dollar contract with nothing but her laptop and perfect Spanish.

Both situations executed with precision. Both handled with complete control.

And both situations are destroying any fucking chance I have at maintaining my own control.

FUCK!

13

Tatiana

I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that I just gave my temporary husband a blow job the other night, or the fact that I’m actually considering his job offer.

My life has become a series of absurd decisions, each more bizarre than the last. Though to be fair, none quite match the sheer lunacy of accidentally marrying Dominic Rossi in Vegas.

Speaking of my accidental spouse, Mr. Billionaire apparently decided that 6 AM was the perfect time to transform my guest suite desk into his personal architectural explosion. He’d scattered blueprints everywhere. With corners overlapping, pages misaligned, probably arranged in the exact opposite order of importance. Subtle psychological warfare, Manhattan edition. Of course I reorganized them immediately, arranging everything in crisp, parallel stacks with color-coded sticky notes. Because apparently even in temporary marriages, I’m physically incapable of not cleaning up after men. Some habits die harder than my self-respect.

I sip my morning coffee in the guest suite that’s become my temporary prison. Sorry, I mean my “luxury accommodation.” The espresso machine in the kitchen cost an arm and a leg. The coffee is rich and perfect, with hints of chocolate and something earthy. At least there are perks to this gilded cage.

Look at you, Tatiana. A couple of days ago you were down on your knees for a billionaire, today you’re critiquing his coffee like some kind of connoisseur.

What’s next? Yacht shopping?

I push away the memory. The way I knelt before him. The weight of him on my tongue. The unexpected thrill that shot through me when he warned me he was about to cum. The way I didn’t hesitate to swallow.

That part wasn’t in the contract. I could have finished him with my hand. But something primal in me wanted to taste him, to complete the act properly. Which is... concerning.

I’m not supposed to be enjoying any of this. It’s a business transaction. A clause I agreed to for a hundred thousand dollars per occurrence. Nothing more.

But my body betrayed me. I was turned on. So fucking turned on that afterward, I had to... take care of myself. Quietly. In the shower. With the water running to mask any sounds.

I didn’t expect that. Didn’t want it.

Don’twant it.

Stop lying to yourself. He’s hot and you know it. Rich and powerful, too. A catch among catches. And best of all, you get to have him all over again. On Day 14. Maybe this time we can go further. We can—

I firmly shake my head.

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