Page 12 of Manhattan Heart

I glance at him on the other pillow, fast asleep, beautiful as ever.

My gut feeling is never mistaken.

What is wrong with my man?

C H A P T E R 4

India

“Baby-girl, what’s the hold up?” I hear from three rooms away.

Husband. Love of my life and live-in-sugar daddy is nothing if not punctual and always ready for any date night with lots of time to spare with his tie perfect and his hair very fuckably messy.

I keep telling him he isn’t winning any prizes just because he’s standing by the door rattling his keys in his hand. That’s usually when he brings out the big guns by flashing his smile. The one that gets me all mixed up and warm inside wanting to scale his tall self like a fucking mountain.

Besides, he’s the most patient man I’ve ever met, seriously. I still wonder how much patience God handed to Grayson in the line when he was putting my ideal man together.

It has to have been a great deal, I know I test his resolve a lot.

I did last year when I redecorated every room. He joked that if we had a sex dungeon, I’d want throw pillows all over.

He isn’t wrong.

The object of my fantasies fills the doorway to our shared walk in closet.

The closet we won’t have for much longer once the movers get in next week. Thank god for having a whole room just for shoes and clothes at the new house or I might cry right here on the floor, I love this closet, it holds special memories for me.

I see his eyebrow wing up into his messy rock star brown hair when he leans a shoulder in the door jamb and those eyes of his—dark like brushed steel and so unbelievably sexy—looking at them still gives me pulses through the middle of my stomach—roams over me from my head down to my bare toes, causing untold traffic jams of sparks in my whole body.

“You look beautiful, but I don’t think you can go bare foot.”

I sigh dramatically, glaring.

I know that.

Does he think I got beamed here on the last pumpkin spice latte?

“This is your fault,” I accuse, pointing a new French tipped manicured nail his way, turning back to endless, ceiling high rows of beautiful designer shoes before me.

My hands on my hips as my dress floats like silky air around my calves.

Silent feet approach and then I feel large hands covering mine and an even bigger body presses against my back and Gray’s mouth finds his nook on my throat.

“I don’t have time for funny business,” I scold, but give him room to kiss me by tipping my head back, his mouth so soft and sure and pleasure inducing.

There’s no way in hell I can ever grow accustomed to the butterflies he gives me.

Just this morning, he woke me far too early with that glorious mouth.

Leaning into Gray’s chest, knowing he’ll hold me close as he can, I finger along a row of silver heels. I even pick up a pair of D&G and though they are spectacular, and one of my prized pair of shoes, they just don’t go with my floaty number.

“What am I being blamed for?”

Naughty hands leave my hips and move around to my belly and then head up. Like he’s testing out the fabric of my dress, he travels slowly until one hand curls around the front of my throat and just like that, I’m distracted and rubbing my butt against his arousal poking me in the back.

My man is a machine.

Lucky, lucky me.

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