Page 103 of Dial F for Finance

I’m left alone with the wind and the skyline, but the isolation lasts exactly twenty-two seconds. The door glides open again.

Dominic steps into the cool air of the late-spring night, heat radiating from him before he even reaches me. He leans against the railing beside me, careful not to crowd my space, though his proximity alone sends a fresh spike to my heart rate.

“Has the avocado litigation concluded?” I ask, staring straight ahead at the city lights.

“Hung jury,” Dominic says. His voice is a low, warm rumble that vibrates right through my ribs. He turns his body toward me, blocking the wind. “You OK? I promised I’d pull the ripcord and get you out of here if it got weird.”

“It’s not weird,” I say, setting my glass down and turning to face him. I step into his space, flattening my palms against the warm cotton of his shirt.

He doesn’t hesitate. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him as his mouth comes down on mine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, tasting of lime, salt, and absolute devotion. It thoroughly dismantles whatever composure I had left.

My hands slide up to grip his shoulders, anchoring myself as the ground drops out from beneath my heels. Every careful boundary I’ve built since high school incinerates in the space between our mouths. I let it burn. I stop auditing the moment for risks and simply let myself do what I keep resisting. I fall.

When we finally break apart, the cool air rushes back in, but my skin is practically humming. Dominic’s forehead rests against mine, his breathing as shallow and fractured as my own. His thumbs trace slow, mesmerizing arcs just above my hip bones, sending a highly localized heat wave straight to my core.

“Remind me,” I murmur, my voice lacking its usual precise modulation, “was the ripcord a metaphorical exit strategy, or did you actually have a tactical extraction vehicle standing by?”

A low laugh rumbles in his chest, vibrating delightfully against my sternum. “I can have a black car downstairs in four minutes if you say the word.”

“The word.”

He searches my face, a flicker of protective concern in his dark eyes. “Has tonight been too much?”

“No,” I correct smoothly, adjusting his collar. “But I’ve calculated the remaining hours of the weekend, and I require a significant number of orgasms. I was thinking we could alternate oral administration. To minimize tongue and jaw cramping. It’s basic ergonomic risk management.”

A deep, chest-rattling chuckle vibrates against my palms. Dominic’s eyes crinkle, flashing with brilliant, weaponized affection as he rests his forehead against mine. “God, Jenna,” he murmurs, his grip tightening. “I love it when you talk strategic lovemaking.”

CHAPTER 27

Dominic

It’s 9:40 on a Tuesday night. Jenna’s reading contracts in my bed while I massage her feet and calves, slowly making my way up her body as she gives me sly little glances over the rim of her blue-light glasses.

“You haven’t swiped to a new page in four minutes,” I point out, my thumbs pressing into the sensitive indentation behind her left knee.

She shifts the iPad on her lap and lets out an exaggerated huff. “I’m reviewing a highly complex merger clause, Dominic. It requires meticulous analysis.”

“Is that right?” I slide my hands higher, my palms sweeping up the warm, smooth expanse of her thighs. She’s wearing one of my tailored button-downs and absolutely nothing else—an executive decision I fully endorsed. “Quote the last sentence back to me, then.”

Her jaw tightens. A faint flush creeps up her neck, completely betraying her stoic expression. “It stipulates that all subsidiary assets must be seamlessly consolidated.”

“Liar.” I lean forward, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee. “You were watching my hands.”

“I was monitoring a potential distraction in my peripheral vision.” She shifts her glasses down her nose, giving me a look that is ninety percent corporate reprimand and ten percent absolute surrender.

“As your husband, I feel obligated to inform you that your peripheral vision is about to become your direct line of sight.” My fingers slide under the hem of the cotton shirt, grazing the hypersensitive skin of her upper thigh.

Her breath catches, the iPad tipping dangerously to the side. I’m exactly two seconds away from completely dismantling her merger clause when a harsh, syncopated ringtone shatters the quiet of the bedroom.

My phone vibrates aggressively against the nightstand.

I freeze, letting my forehead drop against her knee with a heavy sigh.

“Talk about bad timing,” Jenna whispers, though her voice is notably unsteady.

I reach back blindly, snatching the device. “I’m ignoring it,” I grumble, until my thumb brushes the screen and the caller ID illuminates the dim space.

Madre.