Page 23 of Chained By Fate (Dark Billionaires: Vegas #1)

Bruno just nodded again and left, shutting the door with a soft click that sounded like a lock snapping shut—even though it wasn’t.

I eyed the cart: stacks of pancakes dripping with syrup, platters of crispy bacon begging to be devoured, bowls of fruit glistening like jewels… It was food porn at its finest.

Shuffling over with as much grace as my sore body could muster, I dug in like a man on a mission. Between bites, I flipped through channels on the TV, settling on some morning talk show where the hosts laughed too loud and everything was brEAKING NEWS.

With each mouthful of fluffy pancake goodness, I felt life seep back into my bones—a syrupy sweet resurrection. Who knew heaven could be found in breakfast carbs and daytime TV banter?

As the final morsel of pancake bliss surrendered to the abyss of my well-fed stomach, I slumped back into the mountain of pillows, eyelids heavy with the weight of a thousand syrups.

The next thing I knew, I was drifting off to the land of nod, where the pancakes were endless and no one ever asked you to do squats.

Some indeterminate amount of time later—a gentleman never counts his Zs—I felt a gentle brush against my forehead.

My eyelids fluttered open like hesitant butterflies to find Matt sitting beside me, his gaze fixed on my face with that unsettling intensity that could either mean he was about to kiss me or launch a hostile takeover of my personal space.

How long had he been sitting there like some brooding romance novel cover model? I wondered.

“Good sleep?” he inquired, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey.

“The best ever,” I drawled. “Gotta hand it to you, that mattress is something else. Feels like sleeping on a cloud—assuming clouds are made of angel feathers and not just boring old condensed water vapor.”

Matt’s lips quirked up at the corners. “And how’s your ass feeling?”

I winced theatrically, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to my chest like a shield against further indecency.

“Awful,” I admitted with as much dignity as one could muster in such compromising circumstances.

“Feels like it’s been through a meat grinder.

It’ll be a long while before I can handle another pounding from you.

” Of course, that was about as true as those tabloid headlines claiming aliens had taken up residence in the White House.

“Is that so?” Matt chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief.

He had the kind of chuckle that made you think of dark alleyways and promises you weren’t sure you wanted to keep. “Yeah,” I replied, feigning a grimace. "I'll probably need to be swaddled in protective padding for the next month."

He leaned in closer, and I felt my face heat up—damn traitorous blush. “Dinner out tonight? What do you say?”

Despite every fiber of my being screaming yes to more fine dining, I shook my head. My pride might have taken more hits than a pinata at a kid’s birthday party lately, but even I knew when to wave the white flag.

“I can’t even get out of bed,” I said with a rueful smile. “Unless you plan on carrying me there.”

Matt’s lips curved into that signature smirk of his, the kind that promised trouble and delivered double. “Tempting,” he murmured, his eyes flicking over me with a heat that could’ve melted glaciers, “but we’ll have dinner here.”

I motioned to get out of bed.

“Need help with showering?” he asked, his eyes glinting with something far too wicked to be simple concern.

I waved him off, attempting to muster some semblance of dignity. “I’ve got it, thanks.”

So there I was, waddling into the bathroom like a penguin dressed for a toga party, the bedsheets clinging to my dignity for dear life. Matt watched my awkward shuffle with barely concealed amusement.

Once inside the bathroom’s sanctuary, I unwrapped myself from the makeshift toga and froze.

Holy mother of Vegas buffets, I was a walking advertisement for wild night out .

Bite marks and love souvenirs littered my skin, turning my body into a canvas of lustful memories.

The mirror revealed an especially bold claim on my neck, another branding my shoulder, and let’s not even start on the state of my nipples.

It was like I’d been attacked by a particularly amorous octopus.

“Great,” I muttered to myself, stepping into the shower and letting the hot water work its magic. “Now I’m a walking billboard for Matt Caine’s affections. Andy Donovan: now featuring an interactive map of last night’s escapades.”

A shower later, steam curling around me like spirits from a forgotten bathhouse in Mystic Spring, I felt human again.

I managed to wrap myself in one of those ridiculously plush bathrobes Matt had stockpiled.

Fully naked underneath but feeling invincible in terry cloth armor, I made my way back into the bedroom.

Matt was on the phone when I sauntered back into the living room—business mode activated as he discussed percentages and profit margins. The sight of him like that—powerful, in control—sent an unfamiliar shiver down my spine.

Without interrupting his call, he glanced up at me; that amusement hadn’t left his eyes.

I flopped onto the sofa with all the grace of an overcooked noodle and snatched up my laptop. Might as well get some work done before dinner—though focusing with him in the room was akin to read fine print during an earthquake.

I tapped away at my laptop, working to ignore the sensual heat radiating off Matt as he talked on the phone in his deep, commanding voice. Seriously, it was like trying to concentrate while someone played Beethoven’s Fifth on a grand piano right next to you—distracting and impossible to tune out.

I was knee-deep in lines of code, my fingers dancing across the keyboard like a pianist on a caffeine binge, when the door creaked open.

I didn’t look up; it was probably just Bruno coming in to check if I’d morphed into a lounge lizard or something.

But instead of the expected silence that accompanied Bruno’s check-ins, a symphony of culinary clatter followed.

My eyes darted up, catching sight of a chef—white hat and all—wheeling in a battalion of pots and pans. He was like some sort of kitchen ninja, moving with silent efficiency as he commandeered Matt’s state-of-the-art cooking space.

I blinked at the invasion, half expecting Gordon Ramsay to pop out from behind the fridge yelling about raw chicken or something. But no, it was just this maestro of gastronomy, firing up burners and sending the place into an aromatic frenzy.

I expected Matt to order room service, not a Michelin-starred cooking performance.

Curiosity nibbled at me like a starved hamster. I minimized my coding window and craned my neck to spy on Chef Boyardee’s doppelganger. What was he whipping up? A six-course meal? The smell alone was enough to make my stomach do backflips and beg for mercy—or an appetizer.

Over an hour passed, with Matt still conducting business on the phone like some sort of Wall Street maestro. Was he directing global markets or just buying a small country? Who knew?

Finally, mercifully, he ended the call. “Sorry about that,” he said with the ease of someone who hadn’t just been glued to his phone for longer than some people’s relationships last.

He made his way to the wine section—yes, he had a whole section devoted to fermented grape juice—and returned with a bottle that looked expensive enough to solve world hunger if auctioned off. He poured two glasses with the practiced ease of someone who probably had a sommelier on speed dial.

“Thought you could use this,” Matt said, handing me a glass brimming with liquid luxury.

“Understatement of the year,” I replied, snatching it eagerly from his hand. A sip revealed it was liquid gold—a fine vintage that tasted like how silk felt.

Then Matt did something that threw me for a loop. He plopped down beside me on the couch and pulled me into his arms as if we were some old married couple settling in for Netflix and actual chill. He flicked on the TV with one hand while his other rested comfortably around my waist.

I took a sip from my glass and tried not to let on how much his casual touch scrambled my brain—and not in the good omelet way either.

There I was, a human pretzel, tangled in Matt’s arms with my laptop perched precariously on my knees.

My fingers tap-danced across the keys, coding like a man possessed.

But Matt? Oh, he had other ideas. Every few minutes, his lips would descend on my neck, my shoulder, the top of my head—planting little kisses that threatened to compile errors in my focus.

“Could you not?” I said with a laugh that betrayed my annoyance. “There’s only so much multitasking a guy can do.”

But he just hummed in response, a sound that vibrated through me like bass at a club.

And then there was the food. Oh, the food.

The chef rolled up to the coffee table instead of the dining table—thank heavens for small mercies—and began arranging an array of dishes that looked like they’d been plucked straight from a gourmet magazine. Each plate was a masterpiece—tiny, perfect sculptures of culinary artistry.

My eyes widened at the spread. There were miniature beef Wellingtons wrapped in golden pastries, delicate crab cakes sitting atop tiny dollops of aioli, seared scallops perched on beds of pea puree.

And let’s not forget the quail eggs nestled in nests of spun sugar—because why have regular eggs when you can eat something that once housed a bird no bigger than your fist?

The chef turned to Matt. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Matt waved him off with a casual flick of his hand, as if dismissing an orchestra after a flawless symphony. The chef vanished like a culinary ninja into the night.

I glanced over at Matt with eyes practically sparkling with hunger. “Can we eat now?”