Recharge.
As if.
I’ve had twenty-five years to build this hunger, and it ain’t fading. Which is exactly why I keep walking. Another test. Another chance to prove I can do it. Another small victory.
Winning.
So why does it feel like losing every damn time?
Taylor
I close the door and let my back slide down it, hitting the floor before I even realise I’m doing it. I don’t know if I want to laugh, cry, or whoop for joy.
My eyes drift to the contract lying open on the table, and I opt for all three.
He’s agreed to give me a baby.
And I’m not sure what fills me more: the idea of the baby itself, or the fact it will be his.
Both. Definitely both.
The most impossibly perfect combination.
I don’t let myself dig too deep into what that really means, because then I’m back on that yacht, watching him with the kids and imagining an entirely different future. One that he’ll never in a million years open up to me.
So I take it for what it is: the biggest win of my life.
Paris was a dream, and I made it my reality.
But this?
A baby. Our baby.
Nothing else even comes close to realising that…
16
TAYLOR
‘Holy fuck!’
‘There ain’t anything holy about this, Baby Girl.’
He’s right, there isn’t.
He’s slamming into me from behind, pinning my upper body against the cool marble of my kitchen island. Gucci blouse wrenched to my wrists, breasts spilling from my bra, leather skirt hitched to my waist, stilettos still on; it may not be holy, but it is fucking heaven.
Another month has gone by. Another period, come and gone. But the fun is in the trying, right?
And we’re really fucking trying. More sex than I’ve had hot dinners since the wedding, and he never ceases to blow my mind.
‘More, Ax. More!’
He kicks my feet wider, lace knickers biting into my ankles, threatening to snap.
‘You play dirty, you get fucked hard.’
I did play dirty. My inner devil preens. Yesterday’s ‘business’meeting with Theo, I drove Ax crazy in this very same outfit. Leaning across the desk to check the figures Theo was poring over, giving Ax more than just a glimpse of cleavage – the bra too. Crossing and uncrossing my legs wide enough, he didn’t need to guess whether my knickers matched… or whether I was wearing any.
