“Done.” His gaze turns scorching hot. “Let’s start on the first one right away.”
“Wait,” I yelp as he pulls me to him, his strength undiminished by his injuries. “Marcus, wait, you’re hurt, and the doctors—they’ll be here at any moment. Also”—I brace my hand on his pillow, keeping our lips from joining—“I need to tell you something.”
He stills, wariness stealing into his eyes. “What is it?”
I push on the pillow, forcing him to let me sit up straight. Laying my palm on his knee, I say steadily, “I love you, Marcus. I have since before Florida. When you left me that Sunday, it felt like you ripped out a piece of my heart, and I’ve been afraid of getting hurt ever since. But I’m not anymore. I was going to tell you that when you came home after your presentation—and I’m so, so sorry you couldn’t give it because of me.”
An achingly tender smile blooms on his face. “Kitten, I—”
“No, wait, let me finish.” I take a breath. “I love you, Marcus, and I want to be with you—but I’m not okay with what you’ve done. If we’re to get married, I need you to promise that you’ll never again spy on me or manipulate my life in any way. Can you do that? Can you make me that promise?”
His eyes burn tiger bright. “Yes, my sweet. As long as you promise never to leave me—and marry me before the end of the year.”
“What?” My jaw falls open. “Today is December 17th!”
“I know.” Ruthlessly, he draws me closer.
“The end of the year is two weeks from now!”
His lips brush over mine. “I know.”
“Marcus, we really need to talk about—”
He claims my lips with a deep, mind-stealing kiss, and by the time he lets me come up for air, his heart rate monitor is beeping, bringing the nurses in.
Epilogue One Year Later
Emma
The princess-cut diamond on my finger glitters as I smooth my palms over the front of my black dress, marveling at how the silky material flatters my postpartum curves. I still have a tiny hint of a belly, but in this perfectly tailored dress, it’s impossible to tell.
“You look gorgeous,” Marcus says huskily, stepping up to the mirror behind me. “Absolutely stunning.” He cups my breasts, which are now a full two sizes larger, thanks to the milk our voracious little monster demands. The dress exposes only a hint of cleavage, but it’s enough to get my husband’s attention.
What am I saying? Existing is enough to get my husband’s attention. I have it always, no matter how I look or what I wear. When I was pregnant, he spent hours each day exploring my changing body, stroking and loving me and making me feel like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. And in the six weeks since I’ve given birth, he’s been climbing walls and counting down the minutes until the doctor clears me to resume our highly active sex life—not that we haven’t found ways around the restrictions.
For a man whose career is all about numbers and facts, Marcus can be quite creative.
This is an exciting week for us. Yesterday, my husband’s investment idea from last year—the biotech stock that was the subject of his ill-fated keynote presentation—took the top prize at this year’s Alpha Zone. Marcus couldn’t pitch it himself because of the accident, so he had his Chief Investment Officer, Jarrod Lee, do it in his stead later that week. As Marcus had hoped, the company got approval for their blood pressure drug, and the price of the stock more than quadrupled over the past year, generating tremendous returns for Marcus’s fund and everyone else who had the wisdom to buy it on his recommendation.
Tonight is another big night, and not just because I got the green light from my ob-gyn this afternoon—something I plan to tell Marcus after the book signing, lest we end up horribly late. And I can’t be late, because this is my book signing, arranged at my request at Smithson Books. My publicist wanted me to do it at Barnes & Noble, but I insisted.
I might’ve left my full-time job when my romantic thriller—the second book I self-published—landed on the New York Times list of bestsellers, but Mr. Smithson’s bookshop still feels like my second home.
“We better go before he wakes up,” I say, my own voice huskier than usual as I meet Marcus’s gaze in the mirror. The sight of his big hands possessively splayed over my breasts is beyond erotic, as is the warmth coming off his palms. I can feel it even through my dress and bra, and my underwear grows damp as I picture what’s going to happen in a few hours, when I tell him that I’ve been officially cleared.
Oh yeah, it’s going to be a big night—assuming our little milk monster cooperates. Joshua Reed Carelli does not like to be kept waiting, and he much prefers getting his nourishment directly from the breast. If we don’t leave soon, he’s going to let us know—loudly—that he’s hungry, and if I’m anywhere in the penthouse, he won’t rest until I’ve fed him myself. If I’m away, however, he’ll be perfectly content with the nanny feeding him the milk I’ve pre-pumped.
It’s scary how manipulative, and downright psychic, our six-week-old baby can be.
Must’ve gotten it from his daddy.
“All right,” Marcus says, reluctantly releasing my breasts. “But let’s just peek in on him for a second, okay?”
“Okay. But if he wakes up, it’s on you,” I say with a tender grin as I follow him to the baby’s room. There are dedicated fathers, and then there’s Marcus. My husband is as obsessed with our infant son as he is with me, so much so that our nanny complains that whenever he’s home, she has nothing to do.
My neat freak billionaire may avoid scooping cat litter, but
