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Which is maybe why I should have had more faith.
He hooks his arms under my knees as he steps closer, rubbing his cock over my lips and against my clit, before sliding into me. It feels so good, so perfect, even before he angles my hips, looking for the right angle. I gasp when he finds it. He grins, a bared-teeth ferocious grin as he slams into my g-spot. That spot no other man has found. Or maybe they never bothered to look for it. Either way, coming for Martin is so easy, so perfect. So right.
eight
MARTIN
Sunday morning, after the best sex of my entire life, I wake up earlier than I mean to to the sound of a familiar, but annoying buzzing.
It’s not my alarm, but the sound of a text coming through. Over and over again.
If it was from anyone else, I would ignore it, but it’s from Ian, so I drag my ass out of bed, pull on my sweat pants, grab my phone and head to the kitchen for coffee.
Because Ian is my best friend and my biggest client, I have an app that resends notifications of his texts to me until I respond. He doesn’t need to get in touch with me that often, but when he does, I try to be there for him, no matter how inconvenient it is for me.
The guy has made me hundreds of millions of dollars. It’s the least I can do.
Besides, he’s so fucking independent that he acts like he doesn’t need anyone. For as much money as he’s made me, I wish he needed me more.
As I stumble across the living room toward the kitchen, I unlock my phone and open my messages. There are two from Ian that came in one right after the other.
Clear your calendar for lunch. I’m heading into town.
Make that coffee. I’ll be there before ten.
Shiiiittt.
It’s just after nine. And given how late Trinity and I were up, I certainly don’t want to wake her.
I shoot back a text to Ian.
What the hell, dude?
A little heads up would be nice. I do have other clients, you know.
None of them pay you as much as I do.
All of them pay me as much as you do.
OK, none of them has made you as much money as I have. Do you have an hour for me or not?
Whatever the hell is going on with Ian, it’s serious.
How do I know? Because he’s talking about money.
Yeah, yeah. Ian Donavon created Cookie Jar, so maybe you think he talks about money all the time. He doesn’t, but only because he has a wider breadth of knowledge than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s generally pretty quiet. He’s also definitely on the spectrum, even though it’s not something he shares with many people.
I’m one of the few people he talks to at all. When he does start talking, it’s hard to get him to shut up and he covers a lot of ground. Want to know the causes of the Barbary War of 1801? He can tell you. Curious about the origins of dark matter? He has theories. Want to talk about the global economy? He’s got you.
You know what he doesn’t talk about?
Money. Specifically, how much of it he has. More specifically, how much money he’s made me.
Basically, everything I have—my career, my financial freedom, my condo, my security, my ability to provide for my family—I owe it all to Ian.
We were in college at roughly the same time. We were roommates who became friends. It didn’t take me long to realize he was going places and that he needed someone to look out for him. I became that person. He was never going to protect himself from the people who would take advantage of him. He was too busy doing great things.
So I stepped up and did it for him. All the incorporation papers, all the patents, all the contracts … I did it all. And since he couldn’t afford to pay me in money, he paid me in stock options. When Ian took the company public, it made us both rich beyond anything I’d imagined back when he first started talking about his idea for an app. We both know it. And we never talk about it.
