Page 110 of The Reluctant Billionaire
‘Harder!’I scream, and fuck does he really let me have it. He digs his fingers in so hard I’ll have bruises on my hips tomorrow, and he rams into me, over and over, invading my body till I’m a senseless mess, conscious only of the bright white glow that’s built and built somewhere deep inside and which my husband’s dick is stoking.
When I let go this time, it’s more profound, more elemental, and I’m only vaguely conscious beyond the roaring in my ears of Aide shouting my name as the contractions my body’s producing trigger his own obliteration. His own epiphany.
After he’s eased out of me and cleaned us both up with a wad of tissues, we lie down on the bed together, two happy, spent commas curled up into each other, nose to nose.
‘Fuck, Lotts,’ he whispers as he brushes a damp tendril of hair off my forehead. His face is soft. Open. Those extraordinary eyes, which I will never get over as long as I live, see only me. And they’re wet, his eyelashes starry with unshed tears.
‘Hey,’ I whisper, winding a leg around him and tugging myself closer. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I know.’ He winds his top arm around me like a vice while stroking my bump with the knuckles of his other hand. ‘It’s just… I love you so much. And I love our daughter. You two are my whole world.’
‘You’re my world, too,’ I tell him. ‘Remember that independent woman you fell for, who you thought didn’t need you?Gone.’
That gets me a laugh.
‘I need you every second of the day, in every way,’ I tell him, ‘and our daughter does, too. We’re nothing without you. So buckle up, mister.’
‘Our daughter will be like her mother,’ he tells me. ‘Strong, and beautiful, and amazing. She won’t need me, but she’ll have me kneeling at her feet, worshipping her, even so.’ He shudders. ‘Shit, I really need to get more pointers from your dad.’
‘He’s useless,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got him wrapped around my little finger.’
He sighs. ‘Yeah.’
I gaze at him. I may have noticed his incredible beauty first, but the heart inside Aidan Duffy’s sculpted torso is by far hismost precious feature. He is what I suspected from early on—a good, good man. He’ll make such a wonderful dad that just thinking about it makes me well up.
‘I’m glad you took a chance on me,’ I whisper.
He smiles, and that smile speaks of infinite love. Then it turns to a wolfish grin. ‘You basically stuck your tits in my mouth. I didn’t really have a choice. No one could say no to those tits, Carlotta Duffy.’
‘True,’ I muse, trailing a finger over his soft beard. ‘But you thought I was a spoilt brat. I had to pull out all the stops.’
‘You didn’t, actually,’ he tells me. ‘I would have caved. I wouldn’t have let you walk away from me. You had me entranced from the start.’ He kisses me gently. ‘I never stood a chance against you.’
I let my eyelids flutter closed as his kisses turn less gentlemanly.
I see my husband every day. I wake up with him each morning, mainly in this beautiful home he built—the home that’s become our much-needed sanctuary—but sometimes in our flat in London.
I go to sleep each night, wrapped up in his arms.
I share an office with him at least twice a week when I’m doing what he refused to do properly and marketing the hell out of the man behind Fresh Start: Aidan Fucking Duffy. And yeah, I do it really well. It helps me sleep better at night, knowing my entire week hasn’t been spent selling eight-figure properties to people who are richer than God.
My point is, I get to see, to enjoy, all the facets of the extraordinary man I fell in love with.
The animal.
The husband.
The entrepreneur.
The philanthropist.
The father-to-be.
And it gets me thinking. It gets me reminiscing about how angry I was that time, what feels like long ago now, when I found out he’d been lying to me about who he was.
Turns out, the only things he’d failed to disclose back then were his surname, his day job, and his bank balance.
He never lied to me about the man he actuallywas.
He was right when he told me, that day in his office, that he’d shown me the real version of himself. Everything Aide has done, and said, and shown me, has been authentic. The man doesn’t have a false bone in his body. He’s incapable of subterfuge. He’s incapable of not wearing that huge, beating, bleeding heart of his on his sleeve.
He is the realest man I’ve ever known.
THE END