Page 46 of The Forbidden Billionaire Attorney

“See you there,” comes his swift reply.

I make it home with minutes to spare, my mind racing faster than the city traffic. Pulling into the parking lot, I spot him leaning against his car like some ad from a high-end fashion magazine, except he’s holding two slightly crumpled Target bags instead of a designer briefcase. Adrian Cole, in his tailored pants and crisp shirt, shopping at Target? The image is absurd enough to coax a smile from me.

“Didn’t peg you for a bargain hunter,” I say as I lead him upstairs to my apartment.

“Surprise, surprise, Isabella. I do own clothes that aren’t custom-made.” He grins, revealing nothing but charm and secrets.

“Could’ve fooled me,” I retort, unlocking the door and usheringhim inside.

We settle onto the couch, and he hands me a stuffed giraffe, some pastel-colored onesies, and a pack of impossibly tiny socks. I can’t help but laugh. “You shopping in the baby aisle is not a scene I ever pictured.”

“Life’s full of surprises,” he quips back, a twinkle in his eye that suggests he’s enjoying this as much as I’m bewildered by it.

“Clearly.” I nod, still chuckling at the thought.

The laughter fades as he leans closer, the air between us charged with an energy that’s become frighteningly familiar. When his lips find mine, it’s like a switch flips inside me, everything sharp-witted and cautious giving way to something more primal.

His kiss deepens, and soon, he’s hovering over me, the softness of the couch clashing with the hard lines of his body pressed against mine. My breath catches, but then reality intrudes as I remember the miles Amelie and I covered today.

“Wait,” I gasp out, placing a hand on his chest. “I feel like I’ve trekked through the desert. I’m not exactly the poster-woman for pleasure right now.”

“Nothing a shower can’t fix. Why don’t we take one together?”

I nod. “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

“Shower it is,” Adrian murmurs against my lips, the smile in his voice impossible to miss. His hands roam over my sides, pulling me closer until I’m practically perched on his lap.

“Careful now,” I warn, trying to sound stern and failing miserably as another kiss steals my resolve. “I might hold you to that offer.”

“Promises, promises,” he teases back, lifting me up effortlessly as if I weigh nothing at all. He carries me to the bathroom, where the white tiles and chrome fixtures gleam under the bright lights. He sets me down and I get to work setting our shower up.

“Try not to scald us, okay?” he says with a wink, while I fiddle with the shower dials, aiming for a temperature that won’t leave our skin lobster-red.

“Please, you act like women only bathe in volcanic water,” I retort, giving him a playful side-eye glance that makes his grin broaden.

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” he chuckles, watching as steam begins to rise from the showerhead, misting the air with warmth.

“I think it’s perfect for both of us,” I announce as the sound of cascading water fills the room. But before I can make a move toward the shower, Adrian spins me around with an unexpected eagerness that sends my heart racing.

His hands are gentle but firm as they slip beneath my sweater, lifting the burnt orange cashmere up and over my head. It floats to the floor, forming a soft puddle of fabric that’s quickly forgotten as his mouth finds my neck, planting kisses that send sparks down my spine.

“Adrian ...” I moan, and it sounds like a plea for more. My fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, clumsy with haste, until the garment joins mine on the tile.

“Isabella,” he breathes out, his lips now tracing a path to my collarbone, then lower, till they encircle a nipple, drawing it into the warmth of his mouth.

My response is instinctive—a head thrown back, a silent cry for the ceiling, and hands that tangle in his hair, urging him closer, deeper.

“Keep going,” I whisper, each word punctuated by a caress, a bite, a lick. He obeys, and I wonder how someone who can be so infuriatingly smug at the firm can also be this ... mind-blowingly attentive.

He eases me back onto my feet, his hands steady and sure. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break free—as if it could ever outrun the whirlwind of emotions he always seems to stirup in me. With deft fingers, he peels away the last barriers of my trousers and panties, while I work on helping him shed his own constraints.

“Ready to go in?” he asks, his lips tracing a path down my neck, his breath hot against my skin. I can’t help but notice the obvious confirmation of his readiness pressing against my thigh.

“Seems you are,” I quip, a smirk playing on my lips.

We step into the shower, and it’s like entering another world—a steamy, intimate cocoon where droplets of water cling to our skin like tiny diamonds. He backs me against the cool tiles, the contrast to the warm water sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with cold. His mouth is everywhere—neck, chest, breasts—each kiss a spark threatening to ignite something unstoppable within me.

“Turn around,” he whispers into my ear, and damn him, his voice alone is enough to make me weak at the knees. I comply with a smile, already intoxicated by the anticipation of what’s to come.

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