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From my taste, I realize. To her, I taste as good as I smell.
The thought is enough to make my dick give a final, feeble jerk. Meg releases it, sitting back on her heels, staring up at me while she pants quietly.
For a long moment, I just look at her. It’s all I can do. Just gaze back and wonder how in the ever-loving fuck I’ve gotten so lucky.
When I reach my hand out, she puts her cheek in it. I stroke her face, her neck, her nape. The truth slips out of me on an exhale. “I love it when you look like this.”
Her lips curve. “Like what?”
I smile, hauling her up into my lap. “Like mine.”
chapter
thirty-seven
Mrs. Fleming is going to give me a serious Cinderella complex if she keeps leaving outfits out for me.
She must have talked to Ronan about going to the office, because when I get back up to my temporary guest bedroom, I find a garment bag hanging on the door. Inside, there’s a casual-yet-polished outfit, perfect for hanging off Ronan’s arm at work without, you know, actually being an employee.
After showing me exactly how he wants me to choke on his cock, the pack alpha also fed me a whole omelet and a side of fresh fruit. By the time we finished breakfast, Ronan was already late.
To save time, I leave my hair in messy waves and set to work on a decent make-up routine. The skirt in the garment bag is tight and shiny—a nude fabric that matches my skin tone and hugs every inch from my navel to mid-thigh.
With a blouse, it might be a passable secretary’s outfit; but with the artfully faded Nirvana T-shirt and black velvet platforms Mrs. Fleming left with it, the whole thing takes on an edgy, effortlessly sexy vibe. I tuck the front of the loose band shirt into the tight skirt, the way I’ve seen countless (much trendier) girls do it on TikTok.
There is a scary assortment of accessories strewn over the top of the guest room’s dresser. Like, wow. Twenty pairs of earrings, a pile of necklaces, a few handfuls of rings. And there’s still a small mountain of unpacked boutique bags on the floor next to it.
Mrs. Fleming is probably planning to unpack all of them in my—the suite.
I tamp down an instant flair of longing and its accompanying swirl of fear, fiddling with a set of gold stacking rings and a matching tangle of chains for my neck. Still, with every little piece I add or adjust, I can’t help but think that this is all temporary. It could all be gone by the end of the day.
Like I was never here…
I don’t realize I’m sinking into an anxiety attack until I’m shocked out of it. By sunglasses, of all things.
There are eight pairs lined up in a row. Most are black—mirrored aviators, boxy pairs, trendy goggle-like sets. A couple of wire-rimmed gold and silver cat-eyed shapes.
And the pair that splits my face in a wide grin.
They’re perfect. Oversized heart-shaped lenses, surrounded by shiny orange plastic.
Osprey colors. Cheap. Kitschy. Adorable.
Theo.
He clearly had no idea how to contribute to the rest of my wardrobe, but snuck these in so I would still have a piece from him.
Because he wants me to know he tried. Because he wants me here. And because, somehow, even when he isn’t in the room, he always knows when I need to smile. And how to make me.
With a goofy grin, I balance the heart-shaped sunnies on top of my head and leave the rest behind.
I find Archer waiting for me at the bottom of the floating stairs.
Half of me expects some awkwardness from him after last night. But he smiles broadly, the flash of his perfect white teeth especially dazzling behind his full, dark lips. His voice is as calm and deep as ever. “You look gorgeous, sweetheart.”
He extends a gentlemanly hand, helping me down onto the polished marble floor. I note the over-stuffed leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes gleam as he explains, “Research.”
I feel myself brighten. I love research. Specifically anything to do with demographics or psychology.
