His smirk lingered, but he did as I said, eyes falling down like he was amused.
I ran the razor along the edge of his jaw, wiping the blade against the damp towel in my lap. “Tilt your head back.”
He did, exposing the line of his throat, the hard edge of his Adam’s apple. He was letting me take a razor to his neck, letting me glide something sharp over his skin, and he wasn’t thinking twice about it.
I dragged the razor down the last patch of scruff, wiping the blade off against the towel. His skin was smooth now, free of the rough stubble I’d decided I liked, but I guessed it was too late to take it back.
I tilted my head, inspecting my work. “There. No more scruff.”
I tossed the razor onto the counter, reaching for the towel to wipe off the last bit of shaving cream clinging to his jaw. He let me do it—let me smooth the fabric over his skin like he wasn’t in a rush. Like this wasn’t the last place he wanted to be.
“Thank you,” he said as his hands slowly traveled up my thighs, pushing them apart to step in between them.
“You’re welcome,” I murmured, setting the towel aside. I put my hands on his shoulders, wrapping my arms loosely around him. Broad shoulders. The kind that made you forget what you were talking about mid-sentence. Dangerous, really—especially when you were sitting on a bathroom counter at six-something in the morning, pretending you weren’t desperately attracted to your own husband.
Marco tipped his head forward, nuzzling closer, until his mouth brushed along my neck, his breath warm against my skin.
Just like that, innocence was entirely off the table.
God, he felt good.
I tilted my head slightly, giving him better access—because clearly, my self-control was nonexistent—and felt his lips trace a slow, deliberate path along the curve of my throat. Heat pooled embarrassingly fast in my stomach. Traitorous body, betraying me the minute Marco Grey came close enough to breathe on me.
“We’re going to be late,” I whispered weakly, mostly to remind myself.
His mouth curved slightly against my neck, and he murmured, “Fuck, I know.”
“You’re never late, Marco,” I reminded him, even as my fingers tightened against his shoulders, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
I was hopeless.
His hand slid up, fingers brushing lightly over my thigh in a way that sent a pulse of heat straight between my legs. Marco drew back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes dark, that dangerous half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“We only have five minutes,” I offered, my voice breathless and entirely too hopeful.
He leaned forward again, lips barely brushing my ear as he whispered, “I can make you come in three.”
My dignity—and any lingering thought of punctuality—went straight out the window.
And, as it turned out, Marco was a man of his word.
CHAPTER 41
MARCO
Waking up next to Valentina every morning had quickly become my favorite part of the day.
It had also become the hardest.
Pun intended.
I was supposed to be disciplined, but there I was, lying awake ten minutes past my alarm every single morning, staring at the ceiling and trying like hell to think about anything other than the woman sleeping next to me.
Morning meetings.
Contracts.
Anything besides the way Valentina looked curled on her side, breathing slowly, her dark hair fanned across my pillow. Or the way those tiny shorts she wore—shorts that were basically a formality—barely covered her.
