Page 61 of Size Doesn't Matter

“Calms you how?”

He locked his gaze to hers expecting to find censure at his admission, at his apparent weakness, but found only curiosity in her dark brown depths. “I just beat your arse raw for the second time todayandhad one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever experienced while doing so. I’m perverted, Sophie. Depraved. If you knew half the things I’ve fantasised about doing to you, even before I met you—” He closed his eyes and took a breath, opened them and met her gaze once more. “As much as I enjoy decorating your flesh, it is never—willnever—be my intention to actually hurt you.” He held the bottle to her lips and let her drink. A few droplets of water dribbled down her chin, making her giggle when he leaned in and kissed them away. “After care is just as important for me as it is for you, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, that sure smile spreading her lips again. “But just so you know, you didn’t hurt me, Jack. I enjoyed what we did. All of it. And I look forward to learning all about your perverted fantasies. Very much.” Her gaze dipped, submissive again, and her chest heaved just a little bit as she shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe I’ll even share some of my own.”

Besides binding her wrists, a little breath play and the spankings, Jack hadn’t even tried to push Sophie’s limits. They hadn’t had that discussion yet, hadn’t listed their preferences and kinks, and he wouldn’t do anything more without negotiating with her first, but knowing she’d enjoyed the rougher sex, enjoyed the harsher spanking, settled something inside him. Something he hadn’t even known was off kilter until she’d spoken up.

Previous partners had always found his brand of dominance too severe, almost cruel, sadistic, but Sophie’s revelation made him want to laugh out loud. He settled for snuggling his angel close and grinning like a loon.

“What are you so happy about?” she asked him, one brow cocked as she stared at him.

“You,” he said, his laughter breaking free. Hewashappy. “You’re just as depraved as me.”

23

Sophie clung to Jack’s hand as he led her out of the lift and into the foyer of his penthouse. She was tired—exhausted, actually—and in dire need of a snack, and a long, hot bath, so she didn’t immediately notice the oddly familiar décor. But as Jack settled his large hand against the small of her back and directed her into the lounge room, she would have to have been a complete idiot not to see her floral couch, her overstuffed armchairs, her faux zebra rug and pink painted cabinets, her Art Deco coffee table, her books, her knick-knacks, her artworks… just herstuffeverywhere she looked, only arranged much nicer than she’d ever managed.

Jack’s lounge room looked like the sumptuous maximalism photographs on Pinterest she’d tried to emulate instead of the hot mess she usually lived with, and she loved it.

“Well, this is… unexpected,” she said, dropping her overnight bag on the floor by the couch. “When you said you were moving my stuff in, I assumed it was being shoved in a spare bedroom somewhere.”

Jack stood behind her, slid his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “I asked my designer to meld your belongings with mine. I wanted you to feel at home here.” He chuckled. “Obviously Layla thinks your stuff is nicer than mine, because I don’t think there’s anything of mine left.”

“And the wallpaper?” she asked, nodding at the dark teal walls that set off her collection of artwork, photographs and an ornate gilt-framed mirror perfectly.

“It wasn’t here when I left,” he said, and moved towards a large raw timber cabinet that definitely wasn’t hers and read the note that was sticky taped to the front of it.

“And you’re okay with that?” she asked, following him to the mystery cabinet.

Jack chuckled and held up the note for her to read. There was a colour chart stapled to the back of it.

I know you can’t live without your stupid TV, so I had this made to blend in with Sophie’s superior style aesthetic. Ask her to pick a colour and text it to me. I’ll be back next week to paint it. You’re welcome, L xoxo

“I gave Layla carte blanche, told her to go nuts,” he said, carefully folding the note and colour chart in half and slipping them inside his back pocket, then he opened the cabinet, revealing a massive television. His shoulders shook with laughter, even as he shook his head. “She literally squealed with joy when I called her this morning, even though it was only 5 a.m. She’s been at me for years to change my décor.”

“Let me guess,” Sophie said. “A black leather couch, a glass coffee table and a… hmm, I want to saygreyrug?”

“The rug was white, actually,” Jack said, looking sheepish, “but the rest is spot on. How did you know?”

“I have seven uncles, many of whom are not that much older than me. They all went through the leather couch, glass table bachelor phase, but they all grew out of it by the time they hit thirty.”

“I must be a late bloomer then,” Jack said, closing the cabinet. “I’m thirty-five. Although, in my defence,” he continued, “I don’t actually spend that much time here so I’ve never cared what it looked like, only that it functioned.”

Sophie frowned. “Where do you spend your downtime, if not here?”

Jack shrugged. “The gym, mostly. I’m a gym junkie, remember?”

“And a workaholic, by the sounds of it.”

“I haven’t had a reason not to be,” he said, his tone very matter of fact.

A sudden feeling of discomfort made Sophie take a step back, which in turn made Jack frown. She glanced around the room at all of her belongings, at all of the things that usually made her feel calm and embraced her in soothing memories, and then she looked at Jack. She stared at this man who had taken her into his life and was obviously making an effort to make her feel as welcome as he possibly could, and she clenched her jaw against the anxiety clawing its way through her veins. Her hands tightened into fists.

As annoyed as she was at first with his heavy-handed insistence that she move in with him, she did appreciate that he was trying to do what he thought was best. He was trying to take care of her, trying to provide for their child in the only way he knew how.

But she needed more than that.

More than shelter, more than money, more than materialstuff—all of which she could provide without his help—she neededhim.

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