Page 63 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
My usual state upon waking is immediate assessment. You know, check my schedule. Do a quick market analysis. Go over and threats or anything else requiring my immediate attention.
But today…
Today is different.
There’s a warmth pressed against my side. Soft breathing tickles my shoulder. The scent ofher, fills my senses.
Lucy.
She’s curled against me, head tucked under my chin, one arm slung across my chest. Still asleep.
She’s so fucking angelic, even after the debauchery of last night.
My arm is possessively wrapped around her waist, holding her close. When did that happen?
I don’t do cuddling.
I don’t dosleeping beside someone.
My bed is a solitary domain. Out of tacticalnecessity I’ll occasionally allow an exception, and of course, sometimes I need release, but never…comfort.
And yet, this feels… comfortable. An unfamiliar contentment settles in my gut, pushing aside the usual coiled tension. It’s disconcerting. Weakening.
Sentiment is weakness.
My father’s voice, the eternal fucking ghost in the machine.
I should move. Detach. Put space between us before she wakes up, before this comfortable silence gets misinterpreted. But I don’t.
Instead I lie there, watching the sunlight catch the honey gold strands of her hair, listening to the soft sigh of her breath, the rhythmic crash of waves outside the open balcony doors. This quiet intimacy is more dangerous than any corporate battleground. It bypasses defenses I didn’t even know were penetrable.
Her eyelashes flutter. She stirs, nuzzling closer for a second before her eyes blink open. Blue eyes, slightly unfocused, meet mine. Recognition dawns, followed by a faint blush dusting her cheeks.
So adorable.
Fuck.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice husky with sleep.
“Morning.” My own voice sounds rougher than usual. Less clipped. Less controlled.
She doesn’t pull away immediately. Just watches me, a small, tentative smile playing on her lips. The memory of last night hangs between us... the raw honesty, the crazy-intense pleasure, the shift from adversary to… whatever the hell this is.
“So,” she says softly, tracing a light pattern on my bare chest with her fingertip. The simple touch sendsan unwelcome jolt through me. “No Ice King routine this morning?”
I scowl slightly. “Don’t get used to it.” But there’s no real heat behind the words. The walls are still there, but… there’s definitely a crack in the ice.
We lie together for a while longer, the silence comfortable now, punctuated only by the ocean. It’s uncharted territory. Usually, the morning after involves a swift, silent exit. Mine or hers. No lingering. No conversation beyond logistical necessities.
But not today.
Not with her.
Eventually, hunger or propriety makes her shift, starting to untangle herself. “I should probably… find coffee.”
“Emilia will bring something,” I say, stopping her movement with a hand on her arm. “Stay.” The command slips out, more urgent than I intended.
She hesitates, then settles back against the pillows, pulling the sheet higher around her bare shoulders.
