“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling me out of my inner turmoil. “It was a stupid idea.”
“It was,” I agree, but then I soften it by adding, “But thanks.”
His eyes cut to mine. “You’re thanking me?”
“You were trying to be constructive.” I slide closer and rest my palm on his chest. “To solve our mess.”
That earns me a grin. I smile back. His hand finds my hip, then my thigh, thumb stroking my skin. My pulse skips.
He leans in. Our mouths meet, slow and unhurried. His lips are warm, his kiss a question. I answer by deepening it, curling my fingers into his hair.
The air between us heats fast. His palm slides to the small of my back, pressing me closer. I swing a leg over his, straddling him.
When we break for air, he murmurs against my mouth. “You’re dangerous.”
“So are you.”
Another kiss, this one more urgent. My body reacts before my brain catches up. A slow coil of heat builds, spreading from my core. I want him.Now.
But then his lips still. He leans back. His breath hitches as if a new idea has struck.
I groan. “What now?”
“I have a solution!” he exclaims, as if he’s cracked a code. “Thesolution.”
“Go on,” I say skeptically.
“Marry me.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Marry me,” he repeats, his tone even. “With a prenup. Problem solved.”
“You’re proposing? And that’s your idea of a proposal?”
“I see how it sounds premature and unromantic—” he begins.
“Because it is,” I interrupt.
He sits up straighter, visibly warming to his pitch. “If we’re married, we can have as much sex as we want. Openly, without hiding. No awkward power dynamics or employer-employee nonsense.”
I stare at him. “Are you being serious right now?”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he carries on, “Millie gets to stay in her home. She’ll have everything she needs, plus I’ll set up a trust fund for her.”
“That’s generous of you, but?—”
“You’ll have the same,” he says quickly. “You’ll keep the lifestyle you’re used to. The lifestyle you deserve.”
“Alex, I?—”
He cuts me off. “If you want to keep helping with the estate, great. But I’m hiring an estate manager, anyway.”
His earnest expression tells me he’s not joking.
His eyes lock on mine. “You’ll be officially the Duchess of Rohinn again. Not just a courtesy title. Not a dowager. The real deal.”
I study him, the weight of his “proposal” settling like a stone in my stomach. Rationally, I see the logic. He’s offering security. Stability. A way for Millie to avoid moving and starting over. A way for me to avoid financial woes. But I won’t be thanking him for this offer, if that’s the reaction he hoped for.
