know that wasn’t easy on you. You did what you had to do,” he says and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Thank you for keeping yourself and our baby safe while I was gone.”
“Thank you for coming home safe.”
“I love you,” he says, and his heart is right there, inside his eyes and only fixated on me.
“I love you too,” I whisper back. “So much.”
“Ace, I am so fucking happy right now, it’s insane,” he exclaims, twirling us around and making me giggle. “You’re in my arms, and we’re having a baby. Goddamn, I’m the luckiest bastard in the universe.”
I giggle again. “And guess what?”
“What?”
“In about twenty-four hours, you get to head to Vermont with me and spend Christmas with the Lucie family again.”
Luke grins. “Bring on the hot chocolate. Bring on the decorations. Bring on that fucking itinerary. As long as I’ve got you, I’ve got everything.”
Yeah, husband of mine. My thoughts exactly.
THE END
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PREVIEW OF TAPPING THE BILLIONAIRE
I’m Kline Brooks.
Harvard graduate.
President and CEO of Brooks Media.
Net worth: $3.5 billion.
Devilishly handsome. How do I know this? I was prom king two years in a row.
Highly intelligent. Proof? I can solve any Rubik’s Cube, in front of your face, with magic fingers.
Certified master of female orgasms. My fingers, my tongue, my cock—I can make you scream, “I’m coming!” before you even realize I’ve removed your panties with my teeth. Not the almost orgasms that spur a pathetic moan and half-ass whimper. No. I’m talking toe-curling, back-arching, earth-shattering Os that will leave your voice hoarse, your body shaking, and pack a punch so powerful you’ll be left a sliver of intensity short of unconscious.
Am I piquing your interest?
Should I mention my cock is the kind of cock that’s actually dick-pic worthy? I’m not talking an average six-inch shaft. I’m talking big. Thick. Smooth. And hard. Especially when there’s work to be done.
Or maybe all I’ve done is turn you off. Are you thinking I’m like every classless man out there who’s literally a disgrace to my gender?
The type of spineless dicks who won’t call the next day. The guys who specialize in late-night booty calls but refuse to take a woman out on an actual date. Yeah, you know exactly who I’m talking about. Those idiots who have women thinking staying single for the rest of their lives is a better alternative than dealing with the bullshit that’s running rampant in the dating world.
Well, I’m not that kind of guy.
I say what I mean and mean what I say. I don’t kiss and tell. I call the next day. And if I’m interested in a woman, I will take her out on a date. I’ll open doors for her. I’ll pull out her chair. And I’ll never be the kind of horny bastard who texts dick pics—unless the right woman begs me for them.
Bottom line, I’m a gentleman. I prefer monogamy to serial dating and fucking my way through New York City. I’ve spent the past few years avoiding the kind of women most would label “gold diggers” and trying out a couple of girlfriends in between. I’ve looked for the kind of woman I want, but lately, I have to admit I haven’t