Page 65 of Outcast’s Vow

I told him he couldn’t be serious.

But here he is, piloting a helicopter over the city, taking me to our new home.

“You look good as a pilot,” I tell him in the cockpit, giving him a playful jab on the shoulder.

Baptiste’s brash smirk doesn’t fade.

“Oh, I do? Is that, dare I say, a rare compliment from the ice queen herself?”

“Don’t get used to it,” I reply, flipping my hair back nonchalantly. “I’m not here to stroke your ego. I’m here simply to enjoy your private jets and private helicopter tours.”

“Of course, because there’s nothing else to enjoy about me, is there?”

“Well, I have found it hard to walk the last couple of days,” I murmur slyly into the headset. “So, there’s that.”

Baptiste's lips curve even wider at that.

The last few days have been taken up with, well, Baptiste taking me. Everywhere in the chalet. The bedroom. The couch. The kitchen counter. The hot tub again. And, let’s be honest, I haven’t complained one iota.

I was too busy moaning.

“I like to make sure my woman is taken care of,” he replies. “In every way.”

It’s fucking sexy watching him maneuver the helicopter. I can’t help but admire his sharp jaw against the sun, or the way his eyes shine from behind dark sunglasses. Or the way his suit remains perfectly immaculate even as he steers the helicopter over the greatest city in the world.

“I can always take care of myself,” I tell him.

“I’m sure you do, Highness,” Baptiste replies as we drift over the Empire State Building. “You’re too bold and polished and sophisticated to let a man take full control. I wouldn’t dare infringe on the independence of a strong woman like you.”

“Is that sarcasm dripping in your voice, dear husband?”

“Never.”

“And I would never dare infringe on the ambitions of a driven, assertive, charismatic tech entrepreneur,” I retort.

Baptiste looks at me again with that sexy smile still lingering on his gorgeous face.

“I’m so glad we see eye-to-eye,” he says as he expertly guides the controls.

* * *

Baptiste glides us down to a smooth landing on top of a tall building in SoHo. We come to a stop and take off our headsets.

“This is it?” I ask him, twisting to take in the view.

My husband nods.

“This is it.”

“You’re not exactly living in the gutter, are you?”

We gather our things and make our way down the steps to the penthouse loft. It’s heavily secured. Baptiste scans his fingerprint on the door, and we head into the place.

“This is my penthouse,” Baptiste announces, taking my hand to help me step inside. “This is where we’re going to live.”

I look around the penthouse as Baptiste’s hand rests protectively on my lower back. It’s very industrial vibes in here. There are exposed brick walls that give the place a masculine energy. High ceilings. A glass coffee table anchors the living room. There’s barely any artwork anywhere. No clutter at all. It feels more like a showroom than a dwelling.

The good thing is that it clearly seems like no woman has set foot in here for a very long time.