Page 125 of Morally Black Betrothal
“Perfect,” he interrupted softly. His eyes had turned the darkest shade of an aurora but were touched with something warmer. “You’re perfect just like this. Except…”
“Except what?” I knew I should have worn my old clothes to bake.
He turned. “Rosie, can you hand me a wet cloth, please?”
She brought him a damp rag, which he then held up to my face.
“Can I?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what he was offering to do. Clean off flour?
Or not.
To my surprise, Brendan proceeded to clean off every speck of makeup from my face. When he was finished, he set the rag aside and smiled.
“There. The makeup was pretty, angel. But don’t put that shit on your face unless we’re out. When we’re at home, all I want to see is you.”
“Oh. Um, okay.”
I didn’t know what else to say. But I couldn’t look away either.
What game was he playing? Was this for Rosie’s benefit too, these deep, dark looks of something I could only name as longing?
Something I was sure was embarrassingly present in my own expression?
It’s a business arrangement, I reminded myself for the thousandth time.
It’s all an act for anyone who might see us together, and that included his employees.
The words echoed in my head as a hint of a smile played over those full lips, like he was searching for the right words to express himself. He’d just opened his mouth when the sound of the elevator bell broke through the apartment.
“Brendan! Where are you?”
Immediately, Brendan’s expression broke into a scowl. “Fuck.”
29
MIGHT AS WELL DOUSE ME IN FLOUR
Brendan
It took fourteen hours of back-to-back meetings to recover from the first day off I’d taken in years.
Turns out you can’t actually take a spontaneous day to yourself when you’re the very tentative interim CEO of one of the largest companies in the world.
Had it been worth it?
Absolutely.
Had I paid the price for it?
All fuckin’ day.
And then, of course, there were the phone calls from my father nearly every hour interrogating my decisions, second-guessing my instincts, and calling me an idiot with every suggestion I made.
I’d left the office in a storm, realizing that more difficulty lay ahead of me at my apartment. Having Simone there was turning into a problem. Last night, I’d stared at the ceiling until approximately 3:00 a.m., forcing myself not to sneak downstairs and steal into her bedroom like a creep. This morning, I’d onlyjust stopped myself from doing the same thing, and had instead beat off in a cold shower twice before my cock calmed down enough that I could get dressed.
It was the lingerie that did it.
