Page 107 of A Ticking Time Boss

His lip quirks. “I could step down nominally.”

“Nominally,” I repeat.

“Yes. Let’s say we sneak around for a year. After that, I could hand over the reins to a board. Acture would still be the owner. But my face wouldn’t be visible in day-to-day operations.”

“Could work,” I murmur, “but you know those investigative reporters…”

“They’ll be investigating. I know,” he agrees. “Ultimately, I’ll do whatever you want, kid. But I will let you know right now that I can’t wait for the day you’ll be my date to all those boring events I’m forced to endure. I want you on my arm, always.”

“If we go to the Reporters’ Balls,” I say, “then it’s a deal.”

He groans, but he’s smiling. “I can’t compete with the Dean Allens of this world, can I?

“Spend a year in a war zone or win a Pulitzer, and you might.”

“I’ll forever be in his illustrious shadow.” His gaze drops to my breasts, where a large hand is teasing my nipple. “But he doesn’t get to do this, and I do, so he can keep all his damn Pulitzers.”

He tweaks it hard and my breath catches. The pleasure-pain radiates out through my body, and I grip his hips tighter with my thighs. “I’m all yours,” I say.

“I contacted him, actually. About freelancing for the Globe.”

I grip his shoulders. “What?!”

Carter half-smiles. “Yes. Remember this, too, the next time you’re angry at me.”

“You’re hiring?”

“I’m pouring more funds into Investigative, yes. The newsroom is what’ll sell papers. That and the damn news app with the advertising algorithm.”

“Oh my God.” I hug Carter tight, and he laughs, the sound rumbling through his bare chest. “I like you, I like you, I like you so so so much…”

He laughs again and finds the backs of my knees. With a faint grunt, he lifts me boldly off the counter and strides in the direction of his bedroom. “My beautiful, front-page featuring, Dean Allen-fangirling, award-winning girlfriend,” he says. “Your parents aren’t the only ones curious about this new relationship.”

He tosses me on his bed, still unmade from last night. I crawl backwards up toward the pillows. “They’re not?”

“No.” He climbs after me. “I’m meeting my mother for lunch next weekend. Come with me.”

“To meet her?”

“No, to take notes. Yes, of course to meet her.”

I laugh again, but it’s quickly stopped by his heavy weight on top of me. He feels delicious, and so right, fitting between my thighs. The fabric of our underwear does nothing to hide the hard length of him.

“Will you?” he asks, mouth at my neck.

I run my hands down his broad back. Weights, I’ve learned, and swimming. I’ve seen him lift now.

This is important for him, just like telling my parents about him was important for me. My entire body feels like it’s a live wire. I think I love him.

“I’d love to meet her.”

His mouth trails across my chest and toward the hard peak of my nipple. We have breakfast prepared in his kitchen. Orange juice, coffee, bagels. And I couldn’t care less. The wonder of him, I’ve found, is that he does exactly what he wants, when he wants, and always expects me to do the same.

It’s liberating.

“You drive me insane,” he whispers against the lace edge of my panties. His hands have already hooked around the fabric, and his golden eyes are locked on the skin he’s slowly unveiling.

I know what he’s planning… and he’s gotten dangerously good at it. Perhaps it’s knowing how much he enjoys it that lets me give in entirely.

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