Page 41 of Babies for the Big Shot
“Fuck, Sara…”
He drives into me harder, deeper, hands gripping my thighs tight as his rhythm stutters, breaks. He buries himself one last time and growls into my neck as he comes, hot and deep and endless.
We’re both shaking when it’s over. Sweaty, tangled, breathless.
He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t let me go.
He stays there, forehead against mine, both of us gasping for air as if we’ve survived something fierce. His hand cups the side of my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a hesitation that holds onto me, unwilling to let go.
Then he kisses me. Softly this time.
Like I might disappear if he moves too fast.
Maybe he’s trying not to mean it…
Bang.
Followed by barking, surprising the both of us.
Meatball launches himself onto the bed with all the grace of a furry cannonball.
Nick flinches. I yelp. The mattress bounces violently as Meatball bulldozes his way between us as if he’s decided now is the time to enforce the “no boys allowed” policy.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, trying to wrestle forty pounds of stubborn Frenchie off Nick’s very naked chest. “Meatball! No! Get down!”
He lets out a gleeful snort and promptly licks Nick’s face.
Nick blinks. Then laughs.
Actuallylaughs.
It’s startled and deep and boyish in a way I’ve never heard before—something just cracked open inside him and sunlight poured in. His eyes crinkle. His teeth flash. And I can’t help it.
I start laughing too.
And just like that, the room shifts.
The tension melts, the chaos settles, and I realize I’m curled up naked next to my very grumpy, very powerful boss while my dog uses his abdomen as a throne.
And weirdly?
It feels… okay.
CHAPTER TEN
Nick
Thursday morning.Too early for anyone sane to be awake, let alone functional, yet I walk through the doors of Ashford Holdings with an expression I cannot seem to control. A private, feral satisfaction curling through my chest.
I should feel guilt. I should feel regret. I should be dissecting last night with clinical detachment, filing it under mistakes made and lessons learned, as I have done with so many other lapses in judgment throughout my life.
But none of that comes.
Because when I close my eyes, I still see her.
She opened the door barefoot, her hair unbound and unruly, her eyes wide and uncertain in a way that stripped every ounce of control from my body. I hadn’t even spoken before stepping inside, pressing her back against the wall and finally releasing everything I have spent weeks forcing into submission.
There was no strategy. No calculation. No pretense.
