Gerald Wright works for billionaires. He never imagined he’d become one.
The former Navy Seal is a chauffeur by day, artist by night, so when hotter-than-ever ex-fiancée Suzanne Dayton interrupts his nude model sculpting class to serve him with inheritance paperwork from a man he’s never heard of, he assumes it’s a joke.
Turns out the joke’s on him. There’s just one catch. A big one.
And it might be Suzanne — in more ways than he ever dreamed.
He leaned in, kissing her softly. Smoochy stirred, sat up, and toddled off, jumping off a very distracted Gerald’s lap.
“Let’s take this,” she said, breathless between kisses, “one step at a time.”
“Spend the night with me.”
“I like that step.”
“Make me breakfast in the morning.”
“Is that step two?”
“I always respond well to a clearly defined set of procedures.”
“How about a map?”
Neither one moved. The offer, once accepted, was almost enough. Acting on it felt so big. So was he, though. As she crawled into his lap, connected to him by their eager mouths, she pulled her skirt up so she could straddle him, his arms wrapping around her waist. The heat of sinking into him, the intimacy of having his body so close, made her mind rest.
Her body took over.
“You taste so good,” he murmured between kisses, his hands sliding up her spine in tandem, then moving across her shoulders in synchronized perfection to remove her suit jacket. The shiver she gave came less from the temperature change and more from the delicious feel of how he touched her. With Gerald, a touch wasn’t just the stroke of a finger, the brush of a palm, the flick of a tongue, or the thrust into her. Never one to waste movement, he reveled in it, living fully in dimensions she couldn’t even see.
He pulled her shirt out from her waistband just as she returned the favor, seeking the raw warmth of his skin. Her hands flattened against his thick shoulders, the connection grounding, her body moving in a slow, involuntary rhythm against him as he kissed her hard.
As he cupped her breasts over her bra, her nipples tightened, the ache spinning down in a spiral, tearing through years of pain and craving. Her breath hitched and his kiss became more urgent, his intent clear. It was so good to kiss a man who knew how to hold her just so, who used a feather light touch where she wanted it, and who pressed where a tighter squeeze made a difference.
Gerald had been joyfully unrestrained in bed, hours of pleasure unending, as if there were no events marking time— no final orgasm, no steps in a schematic— but only the undefined fuzzy logic of imperfect art played out in moans and sighs, in the light stroke of a fingertip against responsive flesh, in the wave of tongue against arched hips and the push and pull of love cried out in ecstasy.
In minutes, they would be back in that dimension. S
he shivered with anticipation.
“What are we doing?” she whispered, the tone playful, his hands sinking into her long waves.
“Whatever it is, it’s been a while,” he rasped. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this.”
About Julia Kent
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.