No answer, but I hear faint music coming from the living room. I follow the sound, rounding the corner to find her sprawled across my custom Italian leather sectional—the one that cost more than most people’s cars—with her feet propped up on a throw pillow and a bottle of bright red nail polish in her hand.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, taking in the scene.
She’s wearing nothing but one of my white dress shirts, the fabric riding up to reveal a sliver of black lace underneath. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrilsescaping to frame her face. She looks perfectly at home, perfectly comfortable—defiling my forty-thousand-dollar couch with nail polish that could spill at any moment.
She glances up at me, those hazel eyes widening slightly before her lips curve into a smile. “Hey. How’d the coup go?”
“Successfully,” I reply, shrugging out of my suit jacket and tossing it over the back of a nearby armchair. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Painting my nails.” She wiggles her toes, showing off the half-finished pedicure. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
I move closer, eyeing the open bottle of polish precariously balanced on the arm of the couch. “You can’t go get those done? We have more money than we need in a lifetime. We can afford it.”
She snorts, dipping the tiny brush back into the bottle. “I could, but I wanted to do it myself. It’s relaxing.”
“Okay, well then you couldn’t do it at a table or in the bathroom?” I gesture to the couch, feeling unreasonably irritated. “You’re going to do it on the Minotti?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically, then pitches her voice lower in what I assume is meant to be an imitation of me. “We can afford a new couch if we need it.”
“That’s not the point,” I growl, walking over and plucking the nail polish from her hand. “This shit is impossible to get out of leather.”
“Give that back,” she demands, sitting up and reaching for the bottle.
I hold it above my head, out of her reach. “Not until you move your ass to somewhere that isn’t my favorite piece of furniture.”
“You’re such a fucking control freak,” she mutters, but she stands up anyway. “Thought I was your favorite piece of furniture with the way you sleep on me.”
“I just overthrew my father and came home to find you about to ruin my furniture.”
She stands there with her hip cocked, shirt riding up to show more of that lace, and fuck if my dick doesn’t twitch in my pants despite my exhaustion. She makes me want to bend her over the arm of that couch, expensive leather be damned.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says sarcastically, fluttering her eyelashes. “Should I be throwing you a parade? Making you dinner? Sucking your dick to congratulate you on your hostile takeover?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”
She lunges for the nail polish again, but I hold it higher. “Give it back, you absolute asshole. I have three nails left to do.”
“Move to the kitchen table and I will.”
“The lighting sucks in there,” she whines. “Come on, Lucien. I’m being careful.”
I look at her half-painted toes, the way she’s pouting at me like a child denied candy, and something shifts in my chest. It’s these little moments of normalcy that fuck me up the most—her doing something so ordinary in my house like she belongs here. Like she’s always belonged here.
“Fine,” I say, surprising us both. In one fluid motion, I scoop her up, one arm under her knees and the other around her back.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she shrieks, grabbing onto my shoulders. “Put me down! You’re going to make me smudge my toes!”
I sit down on the couch, settling her across my lap. “There. Problem solved. I’m protecting my investment.”
“I’m not a fucking investment,” she snaps, but she’s already adjusting herself on my thighs, getting comfortable.
“The couch is the investment, Little Sinner. You’re the liability.”
She smacks my chest, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “Fuck you.”
“Later,” I promise, dangling the nail polish bottle in front of her. “Now finish your toes so we can go to bed. I’m fucking exhausted.”
She reaches for the bottle, but instead of taking it, she gives me a calculating look. “You do it.”
