Page 6 of Twin Babies For The Grump

The car pulls into a parking lot and slows to a stop. I jerk away from King like I’ve been burned, worried that the window is going to come down.

It doesn’t.

King gets out instead, stepping around the back of the car so he can come open my door, taking my hand.

I know that I must look ruffled when I get out, my free hand snapping down to straighten out my dress, and then reaching up to fluff through my hair. I fight the urge to look over my shoulder at the driver as King leads me away from the car and into the building.

Oh well, the driver must be used to this kind of thing. I’m sure I’m not the first one King has brought here.

But that creeping shame is replaced with anticipation once he pulls a key out of one pocket and holds it up.

“Private elevator.”

There are, in fact, two elevators in the lobby. He heads over to one of them, turning the key. The doors slide open, and we step inside. The moment that they start to close, King’s got his hands on my waist, his lips on my lips.

I squeak a little bit when the elevator lurches up, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “You have all the fun toys, huh?”

“More than you can imagine,” he says.

“I don’t know about that. I have a great imagination,” I answer. The elevator dings a second time, and when the doors open, I see that we are pulled up straight into the living room of his penthouse suite, which might just be the most impressive thing that I’ve ever seen.

Second most impressive.

Still fucking amazing though. The penthouse is all glass walls. It overlooks the city on one side, which has turned into an expanse of sparkling jewels in a dozen different colors, and the dark waters of the ocean on the other.

Everything in the suite is patented leather, black wood, and state-of-the-art technology. I didn’t realize that they made televisions as big as the one on the wall.

King vanishes very briefly into the kitchen and returns with two expensive-looking flutes, filled with wine. The deep red is stunning, and I take it from him with a smile. A little swish, a little sniff, and then I take the first sip.

King looks impressed. “You’re a wine girl?”

“I’ve had it on occasion,” I say, barely biting back a laugh. The truth is that I work at a vineyard in Napa Valley, but that’s hardly something I want to share. The wine has notes of cherries and smoke to it, but it’s not a vintage bottle.

Good, but nowhere near the best that I’ve had.

Then again, maybe I’m biased.

Delia Winery is my favorite, by proxy of knowing exactly how the grapes are raised and the wine is treated. I take another sip of it, and so does he, but the lingering silence is proof that this is not what I’ve come over for.

Soon our glasses are forgotten on the coffee table, and King is sliding his hands up under my dress.

The red fabric bunches up. I lift my arms up above my head, letting him pull the dress off me, and then throw my arms around his neck and kiss him. Somewhere between the frantic crashes of our mouths, I get his shirt unbuttoned and off him. It hits the floor, and I get my first look at his bare skin.

I was right.

He’s like a sculpted statue. Six feet of pure muscle and the most piercing blue eyes that I’ve ever seen.

“Fuck,” he says. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” I tell him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, to the base of his throat.

He backs me up until I’m pressed to the glass window.

Holy shit, this whole building is nothing but windows.

“Wait, wait,” I say, pushing at his chest.

King pulls back. “What’s wrong?”

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