Page 125 of He Should Be Mine
He shudders in my arms and his cock fills even more. A grin stretches across my lips. I slide one hand down to his cock and start stroking it. My other hand remains on his pink nipple, pulling and twisting it in time with my tugs on his cock.
My lips ghost down to his neck and kiss. I suck lightly. I want to leave my mark on his skin. Stake my claim for all to see. But I have to resist. It is not safe to do so yet.
So I keep my mouth gentle. My kisses tender, and not possessive.
Molly cries out as I stroke him through another orgasm. The shower washes all the evidence away. I stroke and tug until his noises turn pained.
I stop, and he sags against me. Boneless and utterly exhausted.
I turn the water off. Then I half carry, half drag him out of the shower. I wrap him in towels and take him backinto the bedroom, where I sit him down on an armchair. I drape the blanket over him too.
Then I get to work stripping the bed and making it with fresh bedding. I hum as I work. Molly watches me silently with drooping eyes. The poor boy is more than half asleep.
As soon as the bed is ready, I scoop Molly up, towels, blanket and all, and lay him on the mattress. He sighs in utter contentment and curls up on his side.
I brush a kiss against his temple. “Sleep well, Mio Molly.”
I watch his eyes flutter closed. Then I force myself to move. I turn away from him, and gather up all my discarded clothes. Once I have them all, I step back into his closet, closing the door behind me. Then I bend over and step through the hole, back into my own closet and room.
I shut that door, too.
Then I breathe. Safe and sound. We weren’t caught. God is smiling on us.
I look at my neatly made bed. On the other side of the curtains, the sun is rising. I feel full of energy. Renewed and reborn. So I might as well start my day.
I dress quickly, grab my phone, and head out to the kitchen to make some coffee. As the water heats, I check my messages.
There is one from Isabella.
She wants to meet. Today.
Finally.
The doors of the penthouse swish open with a whisper of sound and the sigh of cold air.
It’s smart of Isabella to summon me here. No risk of gossip or whispers from being seen in public together. No chance of being caught in the lobby. She knows I’m already in the building, just four floors down. Having me sneak up those same four flights is every bit as discreet as her husband slinking down them to visit Molly.
The open-plan penthouse gleams like a luxury showroom, all glass, chrome, and polished marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a glittering view of London’s skyline, still glowing gold in the late summer sun. It’s all tastefully opulent, designed to impress without looking like it’s trying to. Just like Isabella herself.
She walks toward me, heels clicking smartly on the marble. A whisky smash materializes in her hand, already prepared. She offers it with a practiced smile. It’s cool, elegant, unreadable. No straw. No paper umbrella. Just crushed ice, mint, and quiet menace.
Without a word, she tilts her head toward the terrace. I follow.
The rooftop garden is a calculated oasis. Artificial turf soft underfoot, sculptural plants arranged for symmetry, expensive teak furniture. Overhead, a string of pretty lights are ready to flicker against a night sky like captured fireflies. The scent of jasmine and mint hangs in the air, probably piped in from a discreet diffuser.
We sit at a glass-topped table. The city breathes below us.
“You have a spring in your step,” she says, lifting her drink with deliberate grace.
A grin tugs at my lips before I can fight it. Molly is still asleep downstairs, soft and warm in his bed. I can feel his marks on me every time I roll my shoulders. Everythingis still so fresh and new, I’m bursting with it. Despite the danger, I like that she can see it on me.
Isabella smiles, not mocking, not sly. Almost kindly. That, more than anything, puts me on edge.
Time to get to business.
“You can still be the heir’s wife,” I say bluntly.
Her perfectly shaped brows rise. “That’s quite an offer.”
