Page 121 of Fighting Mr. Knight

“She looks like a thug. What type is she? A hellhound?”

“An Italian mastiff. Great guard dog. Her name’s Lucy. My niece Poppy named her.”

Poppy has more balls than me hanging out with that monster.

“She doesn’t look like a Lucy,” I mutter, staring at Lucy’s massive jowls.

By some miracle, Jack coaxes me inside the gates. I stand stiffly as Lucy sniffs my crotch, praying she won’t rip my panties to pieces like her owner. To my relief, she walks off bored.

Inside, his house is white and modern. Clearly, it’s professionally designed and decorated, but I get the sense with Jack it’s about getting the job done rather than an attempt to showcase his wealth.

It’s also more tech-savvy than I ever imagined a house needed to be. The house can detect useless things such as the optimal time to open and close the blinds, so Jack doesn’t need to.

In the space of a week, he’s come to my tiny flat four times after driving me home on his motorcycle.

We’ve just hung out. For a billionaire, he’s easy to please. I cook and he makes a half-assed attempt to help, then is relieved when Itell him to stop. His requests are always simple, hearty food. Meat. Potatoes. Pies. More meat. The guy eats simplybut eats a lot. It’s like trying to feed a racehorse in training.

And always, as soon as dinner is over, allowing me no time to digest, Jack stripsour clothes off and humps me on every hard surface in the flat. That’s why we don’t go to fancy restaurants.

Jack gives me a tour starting with the roof terrace.

“Wow,” I yell, running circles around it. “You can see everything from here! You can see Lexington HQ!”

It’s a panoramic view of the city. Canary Wharf glass towers glisten over the Thames. Following the river down, St Paul’s cathedral and the Shard are in the distance.

He laughs, deep and husky, as he watches me.

“Here.” He hands me binoculars sitting on the decking table in the middle.

I take them excitedly. “Oh my God, I can see the pods of the London Eye!” I squeal. “This is so much fun.”

I drag the binoculars further down the river. “I can see the Lexington Hotel at London Bridge! What does it feel like to see buildings you own from your house?”

“The view’s much better from where I’m standing.”

I tilt the binoculars towards his voice and Jack comes into view. He’s watching me watch London.

“Charmer.” I giggle pathetically. This man has turned me into a giddy moron.

“Come on.” He juts his chin to the terrace entrance. “I’ll show you the rest.”

“I expected you to live in a penthouse apartment with tiger skin everywhere and mirrors on the ceilings,” I say wryly.

“Christ, Bonnie.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a porn star.”

He should be.

He slaps me on the backside and leads me through each of the four floors by the hand, starting with the bedrooms. My mouth waters when I see the humongous bed in his minimalistic bedroom.

At the bottom floor, he shows me the wine cellar, the games room, the gym and the sauna.

The gym seems to be the most used room. On the walls are pictures of a young Jack and his dad who looks exactly him except without the Italian complexion. Most of them are taken in boxing rings, with Jack holding up medals.

“You look like him,” I say as he wraps his arms around me, pushing my back flush against his naked torso. I touch the chain around my neck. “I’m so scared in case I lose this.”

“You won’t lose it.” His warm breath tickles my neck as he inhales my scent. “I trust you.”

“You don’t know that! I think you should take it back. I’ll never forgive myself if I lose it.”

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