Page 101 of Money Reigns
Her breath hitches—and I want to swallow it.
So I do.
I press my mouth to hers, not rushed, not hard. Just enough pressure to remind her that I own this moment. Her lips part without hesitation and I deepen the kiss, tasting the quiet gasp she gives me.
She leans into me, pliant and yielding, her fingers brushing against my chest like she doesn’t even realize she’s reaching for me. Every soft sigh she lets slip makes me want to push further, take more, ruin the careful evening I’ve planned.
But I force myself to rein it in.Not yet.
When I finally pull back, her lashes flutter against her cheeks, and her lips are still parted, swollen from mine. I drag my thumb across the corner of her mouth, savoring the sight of her undone and breathless, and fight the savage urge to wreck her dress before dinner.
Instead, I slide my hand down to the small of her back, claiming that small space of skin through fabric, and guide her toward the dining room.
She follows, quiet, curious, every step a test of my restraint.
The dim light overhead casts a golden glow across the room, warm and decadent.
I pull out her chair.
She sits.
And for the first time in my life, I find myselfhoping.
Hoping she likes this place.
My penthouse. My clean lines. My perfectly curated world.
Because Olivia doesn’t belong in a hotel like the other women I’ve used and tossed aside.
She belongs somewhere permanent.
She belongshere.
She lifts the lid on one of the covered dishes and her whole face lights up at what’s inside: handmade tagliatelle in saffron cream sauce, layered with paper-thin ribbons of zucchini and crispy prosciutto, a touch of lemon zest curling in the steam. The kind of dish you can’t find just anywhere, not unless you know exactly what to ask for.
She takes a bite, her eyes flutter closed, and then she lets out a soft hum that curls low in my stomach.
“La Serenata?” she finishes, looking up at me through those lashes like I’ve just handed her the moon.
“Yes.”
Her fork stills. “That’s…myfavoriteplace.”
She doesn’t say thank you. Just like I expected, she gets quiet. I watch her across the table, the candlelight dancing across her cheekbones.
Most people can’t stand silence. They scramble to fill it. She doesn’t. She just withdraws into it like armor.
But I know better.
I see the woman who’s afraid to be seen, yet dying to be claimed.
“You’re quiet,” I state, swirling the wine in my glass.
She shrugs, tries to hide behind another bite of food. But her throat works a little harder to swallow this time.
“It’s just…” She sets her fork down, eyes locked on her plate. “It’s weird. How much you know. My favorite restaurant. My coffee order. My dress size. What snacks I keep in the back of the cabinet.”
I take a slow sip of wine. “And?”
