Page 27 of Christmas with the Billionaire
“Good,” I repeat, my voice dropping to a husky growl filled with dark, delicious intent. “Because I have many, many more presents to give.”
16
Charles
Epilogue
The car glides to a halt, a seamless transition from the chaotic motion of the city to the absolute stillness of my building’s private curb. I let out a long, slow breath, the day’s frustrations crystallizing into a hard, cold knot between my shoulder blades.
I have a pounding headache that’s been throbbing behind my left eye since this afternoon.
“Thank you, Dale,” I say, my voice rough with disuse after a day of meetings that accomplished precisely nothing. “Get home safe. The roads might get slick.”
Dale nods, his gaze meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Will do, Mr. Thornton. Have a good night.”
I push the door open and step out into the biting air and pause long enough to take in the snow that’s decided to start sprinkling from above.
Fine, feathery flakes drift down from the bruised purple sky, catching the light from the ornate streetlamps. They land soundlessly on the shoulders of my black wool coat, on the pavement.
I tilt my head back for a moment, just a moment, and let the cold kisses melt against my skin. It’s a momentary balm. A pause. Then, the grumbling engine of my thoughts starts back up. I nod at the security guard, a new kid named… Mark? Mike? He gives me a respectful dip of his chin, and I stride past into the marbled silence of the lobby.
The elevator is a capsule of polished brass and warm, muted light. I slide the key—a heavy, cold piece of metal—into its slot and turn. The world drops away, or rather, we soar away from it. The numbers climb, a silent, swift ascension.
He shifts, uncomfortable. Must be my face. Can’t find the strength to even fake a smile if I tried.
Ding.
The doors slide open, and the world shifts from one to another. An escape from the stresses that come with my position to one of utter bliss.
The air in the penthouse is different. Warmer. It smells of… garlic, rosemary, something rich and savory. I shrug off my coat and hang it on the single hook by the elevator as the doors slide back shut, descending back toward the bottom.
“Ellie?” I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the vast, open-plan space.
Silence.
Not an empty silence. A waiting one. I run a hand through my hair, dusting off the melted snow. My work satchel feels like a piece of what is weighing me down so I drop it by the console table, not caring where it lands.
The hunter in me, a part I thought the boardroom had suffocated, stirs. I follow the scent, my footsteps quiet on the polished floor.
The kitchen is awash in the soft, golden light of the pendant lamps. And there she is. My wife. Her attention is drifting over a cookbook. She’s bent down, purposely not looking at me. Not right away. She knows I’m here, she must.
She always greets me with a kiss. This time, she’s greeting me with something different.
She’s wearing a new apron. A light pink with floral designs. There’s already a small stain on it, from her attempt to cook dinner from the looks of it. She must have ordered it online, a small, secret purchase made while I was stolen away by a phone call or two.
The apron isn’t the issue. It’s… cute.
It’s the breathtaking, heart-stopping, blood-rerouting lack of anything beneath it.
The thin straps of the apron are tied in a neat bow at the base of her spine, just above the gentle swell of her backside. The hem hits her mid-thigh. And that’s all. Just smooth, bare skin. The elegant line of her back, the delicate curve of her shoulders, the long, beautiful length of her legs. All of it, just… there. For me.
Every ounce of blood in my body, every frustrated thought, every coiled strand of tension abandons its post and heads due south, an immediate migration to my cock. It’s an immediate, painful ache that makes me forget about all of my previous issues.
Finally, she turns, and her face—that face I’d carve empires for and burn cities to protect—lights up. It’s a sunrise in the middle of my perpetual night. “You’re home.”
“I’m home,” I echo, my voice a low gravel. I’m moving toward her without conscious thought, a planet pulled into its sun’s orbit.
“How was work?” she asks, her eyes soft with concern. She’s speaking normally, like she isn’t standing right here looking like the sexiest form of temptation that’s ever come my way.
