Page 1 of Manhattan Heart

P R O L O G U E

Gray

I never keep secrets from my wife.

Never.

Even with silly stuff she might get pissed with me about and fly off the handle over. Surprises for her birthday for example or vacations when I whisk her away for the weekend. And Christmastime, she is a bloodhound for finding where I’ve hidden every last gift.

According to India, she likes surprises only when she knows about them.

We talk about everything.

I love our life and I especially love my mean girl.

If there was a chance the love she feels for me would ever dissipate, I’ll move heaven and earth—I’ll dig down dirty to stop that from happening, because I know when I’m onto a good thing and India’s the best ofeverything.

My soul.

My better half.

But I doubt there’s any number of cereal boxes to diminish her from feeling betrayed when she finds out what I’ve been keeping from her.

Marriage is walking a fine line of always doing the right thing for the one you love and not breaking the fundamental rule of bringing honesty to the table.

I hope she understands my love for her isalwaysmy motivation.

C H A P T E R 1

India

Gray is waiting for me when I walk down the stoop steps leading from my therapists brownstone office. He sees me on step five and by the time I’m on the sidewalk he’s climbed out of his Bentley and has me in his arms.

God, thisfeeling.

It’s sunshine and sugar in my veins and I hope to God I never take it for granted just how he makes me feel.

Alive. Wanted. Needed.Cherished.

This man of mine.

My hubby sugar daddy is everything I could have wished on a shooting star.

He’s a man who walked directly out of a Passionflix movie and romanced me into his bed.

I love him. I adore him. And cherish him right back.

Most especially when he grabs two handfuls of my ass through my floaty summer dress. If he wants to get a better feel, it will be nothing for him to lift the hem. But I know my modest man will only go so far in public with his amorous attentions.

“Mm. You smell good,” I know this because my nose is currently burrowed into the side of his neck. My eyes drift closed as a shudder of pleasure passes through me. The Gray effect. Every day he amazes me. “You didn’t have to come for me. I’m good getting the subway.”

He cups the side of my head in a palm so large it engulfs one half of my face and leans down for a short kiss. No tongues. To which I inwardly pout because his tongue can do magically wonderful things and does on a regular basis to my body.

My protest is futile.

He always brings me to my therapy and is waiting for me outside every single time. Even when he has to take short trips to the Middle East for business, Gray somehow manages to work it around being here, so he can be outside this brownstone until I get done whining to the lovely lady inside.

I always thought therapy would make me weak.

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