Blake needs a date to his enemy's destination wedding. And not just anyone-a professional. The billionaire genius behind 215 Tech doesn't have time to nurture a real relationship. He hires Lucy to be his fake girlfriend, but things become real when...
As I lay in bed, listening to the waves and waiting for Lucy to return from the nightclub, I process my mental checklist for the umpteenth time.
When I left for the yacht, I walked along the beach to avoid any guests inside the hotel. There wasn't anyone out at that hour, but I wore my hood in case someone happened to be near a window. There are cameras on the pier, but I've since hacked them, looping the feeds and altering time stamps to make myself disappear.
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If there is an investigation—which there won't be—I have a legitimate reason for my prints and DNA to be on that boat. Julian gave me and Mason a tour. As for the only other person with plausible motive, Lucy has an ironclad alibi. I practically forced her to go to the bachelorette party, knowing she'd be gone for hours and seen by dozens of witnesses.
Like I said, I don't leave loose ends.
Having satisfied my own paranoia, I drift to sleep, unable to fight the exhaustion. Sometime later, I manage to lift my eyelids when a slender hand slides up my bare chest and caresses my jaw. Her plush lips land on mine, and I groan into her mouth, relieved at the perseverance and unwavering existence that is Lucy.
She's a survivor. She already won her battle, emerging from it in blood and ruin. I simply slaughtered the demon that haunts her nightmares. And I'd do it again and again, given the chance.
"I miss you," she whispers, swinging her leg over my hips to straddle me.
I fist her yellow sundress in my hands, tugging her closer. "I'm right here."
She hesitates, biting her lip. "You sure about that?"
Lucy is perceptive. She must've noticed my change in attitude this morning—technically, yesterday. It takes a lot of mental preparation to murder someone, no matter how evil the victim. However, I can't muster an ounce of regret for what I've done.
In lieu of an answer, I steal another kiss. Her tongue glides against mine, curling up to tickle my lip. I smile, threading my fingers into the hair at the back of her head, keeping her mouth where it belongs. She whimpers, grinding her sex on my awakening cock.
"Blake, please," she begs, dipping her face and sucking on the rapid pulse at my throat. "Please, let me fuck you."
This woman will be the death of me. She already made me ejaculate in my underwear like a hormonal teenager. And that was just by rubbing her ass on my lap.
I'm not saying no, so her fingers slip beneath the waistband of my sweats. She sits up on her knees, pulling my pants and briefs down my legs. My erection bobs free, hard as granite and resting along my abdomen. She tosses my clothing aside, then straddles me again, staring at my cock. She licks her lips, her pupils dilated. Her skin glows blue from the light of the moon, her freckles like constellations on her nose. She was made for clear summer nights and wishing on stars.
