Page 52 of Married to My Grumpy Minotaur Boss

I also can’t have her around long term. Even if she no longer works for me. That would be dangerous. I’ve already proved how little self-control I have around her. Besides she doesn’t want casual. She wants a sweeping romance, the wedding and the kids, and that is something I can’t do.

If I write yes, if I prolong this a little, there’s a good chance we’ll have a bit more privacy and I’ll get another chance to make her moan.

It’s irrational.

It’s downright irresponsible.

I know I’ll regret it.

Trouble is I’ll regret it more if I let this end without at least chasing another opportunity. She’s like the last salty chip in the bowl when you’ve already eaten too many. How can you say no to one more?

I sigh, pace to the plush white sofa and sit. Leaning forward, I brace my elbows on my knees. I should have talked to her about this last night.

That’s what we should have been doing instead of playing dirty games beneath the covers hoping no one would notice.

She’s not expecting me to write yes.

She might not even write yes herself. Perhaps she doesn’t want to spend another week cooped up with a grumpy monster who can barely keep himself together. That’s not what those heavy-lidded eyes and wet pussy beneath the coverlet said last night, though. That look was the look of a woman who needs this almost as much as I do.

Even I know that’s self-indulgent bullshit.

I shift uncomfortably and try not to dwell too long on memories of last night. I don’t need to get hard while a camerawoman is practically breathing down my throat.

Amy knocks at the door. “Five minutes to the ceremony, Mr. Kernos.”

I grunt.

With one more long look down at the card and the pen in my hand, I pull off the lid and start to write. I hope I’m not making the biggest mistake of my career.

As if an ominous warning, my heart stutters in my chest just as I close the cap on the pen and fold the card.

I hope she wrote yes, too, or I’ll look like a prime idiot. Wouldn’t viewers lap that up? I can see the headlines now. Monster billionaire rejected on national television.

At least that should raise the ratings for a few days.

Cedric du Monfort, our gargoyle host, flutters his wings and casts a far too serious look around the room as if there’s an actual audience here. Instead, a host of cameras and assistant directors, and fucking water boys, and god knows who else stand gawking at me as I prepare to make a fool of myself just for another taste of that pussy.

Is it too late to change my answer?

I don’t bother asking. I know it is. Just have to ride it out. If anyone asks, I’m doing it for the ratings.

To be honest, I’m not certain I’m not. I haven’t had the chance to check in a couple days, but given our track record for the last quarter, I’d say they’re down.

Yes. That’s definitely why I’m doing this. Nothing to do with the irritating ache in my groin even when I’m not hard. Or the scent in my nostrils that lingers and won’t leave me alone.

“Dearly beloved—”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, can we just skip to the end?” I don’t think my palms have been this sweaty since the last time I presented to the board.

Cedric fixes me with a patronizing look. “It’s normal to be nervous.”

“I’ll give you something to be nervous about in a minute,” I mutter under my breath.

Justine lets out an audible snort laugh and now I struggle to keep the smile from my face.

Flushing, she covers her mouth with one hand and looks up at me in horror. “Why would you make me laugh on camera?”

I can’t resist leaning a little closer, frustration forgotten for the minute. “I never know what sounds you’ll make, Traffic Lights.”

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