Page 297 of Tormented Billionaire Romance Series

The fabric is thin, smooth; her nipples are hard and she’s turning her head toward me, reaching back to rest the palm of her hand over the front of my slacks.

“You know,” she says, “we never did finish our conversation.”

“What conversation is that?” I ask, lightly massaging her breasts through the barely-there robe.

“You know,” she says in a whisper, leaning toward me as she closes her eyes.

I bend down to kiss her on the mouth. Our lips meet, and her hand starts going up and down over the front of my pants.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“We never finished our conversation,” she says.

I’m about to respond when I catch movement out of the corner of my eyes. I glance up to see Marly standing in the doorway with her hand over her mouth.

“Grace,” I whisper, quickly bringing my hands back to my sides.

“I’m sorry, boss,” Marly says, covering her eyes. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.” Marly’s quick to leave the room, but my heart is pounding in my chest.

“Well that’s a little embarrassing,” Grace says with a giggle.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “We should probably get back, anyway. We’ve got an early flight in the morning.”

If anyone were to walk in here, I’m glad it was Marly.

I don’t care if people know I’m dating Grace, but with things as precarious as they are, I don’t know what would happen if the board found out about this. Maybe nothing would happen. I don’t know.

Grace and I are both adults, but Marly only calls me boss when she wants me to know she doesn’t approve of something. That’s almost universally bad.

CHAPTER7

MANHATTAN

GRACE

The phone next to the bed starts ringing, but I’m nowhere near awake enough to answer it.

This is day four in Manhattan, and I just want to sleep in as long as possible.

While we were on the plane here, I told Zach I wasn’t sure if we should keep staying together while we’re there. I was expecting an incredulous response, something about how we spent a week together back in the hotel room in Mulholland, but he didn’t bat an eye.

Now, staying in what would be a six or seven star room—if the ratings went that high—I’m content to let the most insanely comfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on keep doing its work.

I’m nearly back to sleep again when the phone rings a second time.

With a groan, I reach over and pull the receiver off its cradle and put it to my ear, saying, “Yeah?”

“Good morning, Miss Michaels, I trust you’ve slept well,” Bertrand, the on-call butler—yeah, the room comes with an on-call butler—says.

“You sound entirely too chipper, Bertrand,” I say.

“My apologies, Miss,” he says. “You have a call from Mr. Scipio.”

“All right,” I say, rolling onto my back. “Patch him through.”

I love saying that.

“Hey, Grace,” Zach says. “How are you doing this morning?”

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