Page 111 of How to Train Your Billionaire

I’m deposited onto his bed, and all my giggles and nerves disappear.

There’s never been anything quite as perfect as this.

In his presence, gone are any feelings of inadequacy. Gone is the voice in my head that says I’m not enough, not right, not worthy of someone like him.

There’s only Hayes, looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice rough.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He smiles then—the real one, not the polished version he shows the world. “Good. Because I’m done letting you go.”

My sweater hits the floor. Then his shirt. Somewhere between my breathless laugh and the way he whispers my name, I realize this is what I’ve been missing my entire life.

Not just sex. Connection.

Not just desire. Home.

“I love you,” he tells me against my skin.

“I love you too,” I breathe back.

And then he’s kissing me again, and I’m lost.

Completely, utterly lost.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to be found.

Chapter Forty

Morning After Everything

Hayes

I wake up to the smell of bacon and the sound of Frankie singing off-key in my kitchen.

For a second, I think I’m dreaming. Then I remember last night—her taste, her laugh, the way she said my name like a prayer—and my chest does this stupid expanding thing that makes it hard to breathe.

She’s here. In my kitchen. Making breakfast.

I grab a pair of sweatpants and pad barefoot toward the noise. The perfect chaos that only she can bring.

Frankie’s standing at my stove, wearing nothing but my dress shirt from last night and a pair of my socks that go up to her knees. Her hair’s a disaster—sticking up in twelve different directions—and she’s using my expensive spatula to flip bacon while humming what sounds like a Top 40 song I don’t recognize.

She looks perfect.

“Morning,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

She turns, and her face lights up. “Oh good, you’re not dead. I was starting to worry I’d killed you with my feminine wiles.”

“Feminine wiles?”

“That’s what my mom used to call it when women got what they wanted from men. Though I’m pretty sure she was being sarcastic.”

“Did you get what you wanted?” I give her a sly look.

Her gaze dips lower, across my chest and down my torso. The way she’s looking at me—like I’m her personal buffet and she’s starving—makes my blood run hot.