Holmes, Sanson, Tate and Felstead follow us through the revolving doors, where a pianist plays something soft and poignant in the lobby. Zara’s heels click on the gleaming marble floor as she glides in beside me like she owns the place.
And fuck—so she should. She steals the air from every room she walks into. Every other woman pales in comparison to her. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on before, but now that she’s pregnant? She’s like a fucking goddess.
Her hand brushes her bump as we cross the marble floor, and a strange, primal surge of pride tightens my chest.
A hostess in a tailored black suit spots us instantly. ‘Mr Hartmann,’ she says with a professional bow. ‘Your private suite is ready.’
I booked it the second Zara agreed to dinner. As we follow her through the Horseshoe Bar, her eyes burn into the side of me.
‘You booked a private room?’ she murmurs, arching a brow.
‘Yes,’ I say simply.
‘Why?’
‘Several reasons.’ I slide her a look. ‘I didn’t want prying eyes,’ I admit quietly. ‘Or interruptions.’
She glances at me over her shoulder, lips curving. ‘Or witnesses?’
‘Definitely not witnesses,’ I murmur.
She rewards me with that infectious laugh of hers and the sound punches straight into my ribcage.
God help me.
I’m fucked.
I’m utterly obsessed with her, and I can’t even deny it.
‘Plus, the second an Irish paparazzo gets a photo of us together, your brothers will storm this place like a SWAT team.’
Her lips twitch. ‘They’re notthatbad.’
‘Zara, did you happen to notice how anyone who ever crossed your family miraculously went missing?’ I cock my head. ‘I refuse to be next on that list. Especially now that I’m about to become a father.’
She can’t argue. She knows I’m right. ‘Doesn’t that intimidate you?’ She exhales, heavily.
‘No. I have my own list of enemies who have conveniently disappeared.’ I’m not even joking. ‘All is fair in love and war, right?’
Her eyes widen, but she stays silent as we ascend a shortflight of stairs to an ornate corridor lined with oil paintings and gold-framed mirrors. The hostess opens a walnut door. ‘Here we are—the Fitzgerald Suite. The champagne is chilling. There’s water. Menus. Someone will be up shortly to take your order. In the meantime, anything you need, just ring.’
A round table dressed in white linen punctuates the centre of the candlelit room. As I requested, Zara’s favourite champagne sits chilling in a chrome cooler in the centre of the table. I know she’s not supposed to drink alcohol, but I thought she might like a tiny mouthful for a toast.
Our security team lines the corridor as Zara steps inside and heads straight for the French doors. They open onto a balcony overlooking St Stephen’s Green. The city glows beneath us.
I watch her drink it all in. ‘Was the view another reason for booking a private suite?’
‘No.’ I prowl closer, wrapping my arms around her waist from behind. I smooth my palm over her stomach, over our baby growing inside her. My baby. It feels more intimate than having my fingers inside her in the limo. She leans back against me, melting into me. Her hand slides over the top of mine, our fingers entwining. ‘The other reason I booked this private room was so I could sit you up on the table and eat your pretty pussy for dessert.’
She hisses and spins to face me. ‘Will you let me come this time?’
‘That depends on how our discussion goes.’ I murmur into her ear, deliberately dragging my mouth over her sensitive lobe.
‘Let’s begin, then.’ She strides over to the table, hips sashaying, practically inviting me to grab them, lift her onto the table and fuck her into next year.
She takes a seat, back ramrod straight in the chair, hands clasped together on the table in front of her. She’s allbusiness. For a second, I get a flash of the woman who has carved out one of the most sought-after design companies in Europe. The woman who has clawed her way to the top with a vision that, according to my sources, her family didn’t initially think would come to fruition.
‘What is it that you want to discuss exactly, Mr Hartmann?’ She inclines her head to the side, and her glossy, bouncing curls swing, revealing her long, slender neck. The urge to sink my mouth onto her skin is overwhelming. I’ve been hard from the moment I saw her. The need to claim her with my hands, my mouth and my cock is overwhelming, but I refuse to be her fuck toy. There’s no way she’s using me for sex, then running out on me the way she did in the Dominican.
