Page 34 of Mad Love

“Take time off.”

“Sir, you need me.”

“Your wife needs you more. Anyway, I have an X-R 85 to test drive.”

“You finally got the car, eh?”

“I got something better. I have the girl.”

Dennis chuckles. “Congratulations on your marriage, and thank you, sir. Good night.”

“Good night, Dennis.”

He walks to his car. I take the elevator to the lobby and check in with my guys, asking them the same questions.

“Visitors?”

“None.”

“Packages?”

“One, sir. Again, from the lingerie store down the street.”

“Thanks, Charles. Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Stassi.”

I do the same routine I always do. I get in the elevator and unbutton the top buttons of my shirt, looking forward to a few laps in the pool. Except this time, I have a shit ton of questions for my wife. Forget the foreplay and the box of scarves and thong panties I forewent buying when I stopped by the lingerie store on the way home.

A pregnancy isn’t the reason for the fast nuptials; Blaise is a virgin. I suspect the business arrangement and our subsequent marriage has to do with her grandfather’s will.

Without the security of his money, Blaise had to find security fast. Hence, needing my name for protection. I have loads of money. But she doesn’t want my money or my body, her words. Then why the change of mind? Will she change her mind next and go after my billions now that she’s near broke?

Pressing my thumb to the pad next to the door, I put up my guard. I know as much about Blaise as the rest of the world. After her parents died in a plane crash when she was thirteen, she went to live with her grandfather. He assumed guardianship.

At the age of sixteen, she was kidnapped and held for ransom. Her grandfather paid the reported five million dollars for her freedom. When her kidnapper released her to the FBI, Blaise lived with her cousin Roman at his Montana estate before she moved into her own large mansion with her four bodyguards when she was eighteen.

Other than hopping from party to party with her bodyguards in tow, or throwing huge parties at her Montana estate, Blaise rarely went out in public. At the age of nineteen, she was linked romantically to her then twenty-five-year-old bodyguard, Granger Ward.

Inside my place, I shrug off my jacket, set my briefcase on an overstuffed chair, and saunter to the kitchen. Blaise has on an apron over her dress, and she’s taste-testing whatever she’s cooking, the tip of her tongue flicking over the spoon.

Jesus, what will it be like to have her tongue flick my cock from base to head? For her to wrap her small mouth around my big cock? Her mouth would be like a fist. Warm and wet too. I jam my hands inside the pockets of my trousers and demand my cock calm the fuck down.

There will be no touching or conceding to Blaise’s on-the-down-low charm and innocent seduction until I understand what her motives are and what this “danger” is she’s in that’ll take at most three months to resolve.

“Smells good.”

She sets the spoon down. “I hope you’re hungry. I made beef roast and butternut squash soup.”

“Starving. Need help?”

“Nope. Did you want to shower and get into something more comfortable?”

“I made plans. I’m sorry to dine and dash on you.”

“No need to be. I should be the one apologizing, having forgotten that we have separate lives and this is a business arrangement.”

How we should keep things. Business, no pleasure.

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