Page 149 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Cade

She’s here. Of course, she’s here. Zara’s her boss, and the two of them share a unique relationship where my sister, clearly, considers herself a mentor to Abby.

Abigail Warren. Little sister of my best friend Knight, who he explicitly warned me off.

A warning I did not heed when I decided to make her pay for what she did.

What I didn’t expect is this bone deep attraction for her.

Every time I make her come, it’s as if I’m losing a part of myself to her.

It makes me feel close enough to her to share my deepest secrets.

It’s why I left without a word. I couldn’t face her again after that last time I made love to her—yes, it was making love, not fucking or shagging.

It was missionary position, gazing into each other’s eyes, vanilla lovemaking which blew my brain and made me orgasm so hard I saw stars for days after.

The fact that I didn’t need any sex games to bring myself to completion—that being inside her, holding her, touching her, kissing her, hearing her soft moans, and ensuring I satisfied her had been enough to satisfy me—was a mindfuck.

Let’s face it, I was spooked. The King had been toppled from his throne, and fuck, if that didn’t throw me for a six—forgive the cricket metaphor, not.

I needed distance to gain some perspective, and I counted on the game to do that for me.

And, to some extent, it did. These past few months have been the most successful of my career.

Only, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind.

Were it not for the fact that I’ve had eyes on her and could follow her every move in and out of her house, I’d have gone mad.

Let’s not discuss why I’ve had eyes on her. Obsession, much?

Suffice it to say, the last few months have been torture.

Watching her jerk herself off to sleep every night and hearing her moans and cries as she orgasmed without my help has been sheer torture.

I’ve never been jealous of a vibrator as much as I am of the one she keeps in her bedside drawer.

I’ve recorded those videos and jerked off to them every night.

I know it’s beyond fucked-up, but it’s the only way I’ve survived.

I suppose, if only for that reason, it’s a good thing I didn’t tell her she couldn’t orgasm without me.

I know she would have obeyed me, even if she didn’t want to, and then I wouldn’t have seen it.

But nothing comes close to seeing her in real life as she stands here looking at me with her big, green eyes. And of course, she’s not going to accept the proposition that she work for me.

"Don’t recall giving you a choice," I drawl.

Her gaze widens. "Choice? You’re giving me a choice?"

"I’m not," I clarify.

Color flushes her cheeks. "Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?"

"The man your brother charged with taking care of you."

"Excuse me?" Those big eyes of hers grow enormous, until they overshadow any other feature. “Knight never mentioned anything about you taking care of me, and why would he do that anyway?”

"Because I’m his best friend?" I suggest.

“Well, I absolve you of your duty.” She cuts the air with her palm. “You can rest assured; I can look after myself.”

“Apparently, you’re not doing a good enough job of it,” I sneer.

“King!” Zara protests, but I ignore her.

Abby stiffens. “What do you mean?”

I look her up and down. “Clearly, you haven’t been sleeping. You have dark circles the size of Greenland under your eyes.”

“Wh-what?” She opens her mouth, then shuts it, then opens it again.

Before she can respond, I continue, “As for your dress… I can’t believe you wore that out of the house.”

Zara makes a strangled noise at the back of her throat.

I ignore her; so does Abby.

She glances down at her dress. “This’s from Mango,” she whispers. When she looks at me again there’s a downward tilt to her lips.

My chest tightens, my insides heave, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. And all because I hurt her with my words? Fuck that. My feelings for her haven’t changed—not one bit, not at all. She’s still the girl who betrayed me, and I’m still the man who’s going to make her pay for it.

“It’s too short,” I growl.

“Too short?” She looks down at the hem which falls to just above her knees, then at me. “It’s perfectly decent.”

I firm my lips. “It’s also sleeveless and the neckline is too revealing and—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Zara snaps. The baby stirs, then begins to cry.

She hushes the kid, who only begins to bawl louder.

“It’s okay, darling. Mommy’s here. You’re hungry, aren’t you?

” She pushes down the neckline of her dress and I get a flash of her breast—my sister’s breast—before I hastily turn away.

The baby stops crying, clearly, because it’s latched onto her boob. Ah hell, should I be associating the word boob with my sister? Sisters aren’t supposed to have breasts or get married, or spawn babies, for that matter. Jesus, when had the time gone by?

I remember Zara as a feisty girl who matched me when it came to running, playing cricket and football, or standing up to my parents when they insisted she behave more like a 'girl.

' When did she grown up enough to have a child of her own? How much did I miss in the time I was away from home? I rub the back of my neck. Why am I having all of these misgivings? I made my choices a long time ago. And so far, they’ve stood me in good stead.

So, why am I questioning them now? Clearly, seeing my sister with her newborn, not to mention running into the woman who has a way of getting under my skin, has thrown me off kilter.

"I think, uh… I need a cup of coffee." I turn toward the door.

"I’m not done with either of you," Zara announces.

I blow out a breath. I may be a few minutes older than her, but she’s always been the bossy one. And when my sister commands, you don’t ignore it.

I exchange glances with Abby, who looks a little shamefaced, as well. She glances at Zara. "Sorry about that; didn’t mean to wake up the little one."

"Oh, he was hungry; he’ll be okay once he’s had his fill." She turns to me. "You, on the other hand, need to apologize."

"Eh?" I scowl. "For what?"

"For being rude and saying things you don’t mean, for one."

"I meant everything I said." I draw myself up to a full height. "Also"—I turn to Abby—"I promised your brother I’d look after you while he’s away."

Abby folds her arms across her chest, her jaw set in stubborn lines that take me by surprise.

The Abby I left in bed all those months ago had been pliable and open.

She’d parted her thighs, wound her arms about me, and offered herself to me.

She’d opened her heart, mind, and soul, and I had taken from her.

She’d been flexible and soft and all woman.

I don’t remember her being this headstrong.

Apparently, the months I’ve been away have given her the time and space to acquire a backbone. Now, she narrows her gaze on me.

"I do not need you," she snaps.

"Oh, but you do. You just don’t know it yet," I say in a casual tone.

Her eyes flash. "Anyone ever told you how condescending you are?"

"I can afford it."

She gapes at me. "You’re such an asshole."

"Thank you. Also, I prefer alphahole."

"Why you—"

"Enough already.” Zara’s steely tone cuts between us.

Abby takes a deep breath and seems to get ahold of herself, and by the time she turns to face Zara, all traces of anger are wiped from her face. "Sorry about that. I don’t normally lose my temper."

"Don’t I know that?" Zara looks at her speculatively. "It’s good to see you stand up for yourself."

She shuffles her feet. "It’s just, he— I—"

"Don’t worry about it." Zara’s features soften. "I know what he’s like. Still, I think it will be good for you to accept this role with King."

Abby blinks. "Y-you do?"

Zara nods. "You’ve done a great job with the Prime Ministerial campaign. But that’s over now, and you need something else to challenge you so you can grow. And becoming King’s Communication Manager would give you all of that, and more."

"Are you saying my reputation is in need of repair?” I protest.

Zara snorts. "It would help if you weren’t seen with a different woman every week, and in a different country. Not to mention, that bar-fight you got into in Thailand. You could have done without that."

I smirk. "You should see the other guy."

Zara shakes her head, but her lips curve up a little. "You’re right that you need a professional in charge of your image. Someone who’ll also keep you in line."

"Hold on." I raise my hands. "Who said anything about keeping me in line?”

"If I were to become your Communications Manager—and I mean, if—you’d need to follow the ground rules I lay down." Abby draws herself up to her full height.

"I make the rules, doll, I don’t follow them."

"Also, I have a name. You’d do well to call me by that," she says primly.

"I’ll be the person paying you. Do I need to remind you of that?"

"And I’m the person who’ll be managing your public-facing profile, so remember, I have the power to also cast you in a bad light."

I stare at her, then bark out a laugh. "Touché, Sparrow. Apparently, you have claws."

She glances at her nails then rubs them on her sleeve. "They’re sharp and lethal and can cause enough damage that you’ll wear the scars for a lifetime."

Don’t I know it. The thought of her marking me sends a ripple of heat racing through my veins.

I walk around the bed, then hold out my hand to her. "I know you need to give your boss notice.” I nod toward Zara, then turn to her, “How soon can you start?”