Page 161 of Stranger to Love

When the night finally drew to a close, I refused to let Adrian call a taxi. After a brief, quiet phone call to my usual private taxi, I simply announced that my personal driver was waiting on the driveway.

Mia looked as though she was physically straining to hold back a comment on the sheer absurdity of my lifestyle. She lunged in for one of her trademark, suffocating hugs, practically burying Alex before pulling back to plant a loud, wine-flavoured kiss right on my girl's lips.

Alex shoved her away, laughing while simultaneously panicking about my reaction. "Mia! You just spent all night convinced Carrie is in the mafia, and now you’re kissing me? Are you actually trying to die?"

I stepped directly into Alex's space, wrapping my hands around her waist from behind and pulling her spine flush against my front. "Don’t blame Mia, princess," I smirked, my eyes dark with absolute certainty. "Not when you look like this. I can hardly blame her for wanting a taste."

I was entirely secure in my ownership; Mia’s antics were nothing more than a harmless, entertaining distraction. I exchanged a polite, brief hug with Adrian, approving of his steady nature, before Mia threw herself entirely at me, completely disregarding professional boundaries.

"Oof," I exhaled as her full weight hit my chest.

"Dr. Vixen!" Mia chirped into my shoulder. "Call me if Alex ever wimps out! I’m a much better sub, I promise!"

Alex looked as though she wanted the earth to swallow her whole. I caught Mia by the arms to steady her, a low, melodic chuckle escaping my throat as I looked past her straight at my wide-eyed fiancée.

"I’ll keep that in mind, Mia," I said, my eyes flashing with a wicked, meaningful promise. "But I think Alex is finally starting to realise that 'wimping out' isn't an option in this house."

The front door finally clicked shut, the hum of the sedan fading into the midnight silence. The house was suddenly heavy, thick with anticipation. I didn't move my hands from Alex's waist. I simply spun her around, driving her backward until she was pinned entirely between the solid wood of the door and the heat of my body.

I leaned down, my voice stripping away every ounce of the hostess warmth, replaced by something sharp, demanding, and utterly dominant.

"Now," I whispered, my eyes locking onto her frantic gaze. "About your language tonight..."

Chapter 35

Alex

I had officially taken over Carrie’s lounge, and for the last few hours, I had been a woman possessed.

She had acted like a literal supervillain when I first brought up doing something nice for Valentine’s Day, but she had completely melted the previous week. When I snuggled into her arms over morning coffee and asked if she’d be my Valentine, she had fought so hard to keep a straight face—and hide her blush—that I fell in love with her all over again. So there I was, feeling like a giddy teenager as I executed my master plan. And yes, I completely caved and used her credit card. She had insisted with that unyielding "don't argue with me" authority she had, and honestly? I had lost all my resistance the moment I realised I could order hand-dipped, dark chocolate strawberries from the artisanal bakery I had spent months admiring from the window.

Valentine’s Day had never been a thing for me. I had never had a girlfriend, let alone a grand romantic plan. My usual February 14th had meant dragging myself through a brutal shift at The Dam and either heading home to my empty bed or finger-fucking a woman against the counter after the doors were locked.

But not that year. That was all romance and sentiment, and since I didn't really know how to do "subtle," I had decided to go absolutely fucking mental. Carrie had a late in-person meeting for one of her businesses—she was furious and incredibly apologetic about the timing—but her absence gave me the window I needed. She’d given me a key so I could let myself in, and something stirred deep inside me when I took it. It was a practical necessity for that night, but a small voice in my head kept wondering: Would she ask for it back?

When I had arrived earlier, I was greeted by a bewildered Richard, who was trudging upstairs in sweats with a mountain of food. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he thought better of it and scurried back to his cave. Good. I wasn't in the mood for small talk.

I stood back then, hands on my hips, surveying the damage. It looked like St. fucking Valentine himself had thrown up in there. I had helium heart balloons, streamers, and a banner that said ‘Will you be my Valentine?’ draped across the room. I had practically carpeted the place in rose petals, even going so far as to arrange them in a heart shape on the rug in front of her bed. There were vases of red roses everywhere—I definitely went over the top—and the coffee table was buried under a massive charcuterie board of cured meats and strawberries. I had watched about fifty TikToks to make sure it looked expensive.

St. Valentine hadn't just claimed the room; he had claimed me, too. My hair and makeup were pristine, and I had even spent a chunk of Carrie’s money on some lingerie. I had never worn the stuff in my life, but I knew she was going to lose her fucking mind. It was a deep red lace set with a garter belt and stockings, currently hidden under a matching silk robe just in case Richard decided to make an unwelcome appearance.

I took a deep breath and poured two glasses of champagne, my hands shaking slightly as I listened for the sound of her car in the drive. She’d be home any minute.

I started to fidget, the silence of the house magnifying my nerves. How was I supposed to wait for her? Did I just stand in the middle of the room like a decorative statue? No, that was fucking weird. I tried sitting on the large sofa, but then my back was to the door and I’d miss the look on her face when she walked in. I moved to the side sofa, but I couldn't figure out how to sit without looking like I was waiting for a bus or a fucking dental appointment.

I retreated to the middle of the room again, heart hammering against my ribs. "Get it together, Alex," I whispered.

I paced over to the fireplace—having finally conquered the remote—and tried leaning against the mantel in a pose I hoped looked effortlessly seductive. Then I caught my reflection in the glass above it and immediately cringed. Jesus, you look like a complete fucking idiot.

Finally, I settled into the armchair by the fire. It was the perfect vantage point. From here, I could see the door clearly, and the fire cast a warm, flickering glow over the red silk of my robe. I picked up my champagne flute, adjusted the hem of the silk over my knee, and took a steadying breath. Okay. This was it. Regal. Poised. Not about to fucking throw up.

The distant hum of a car engine vibrated through the floorboards. The headlights swept across the front window, and my stomach performed a slow, agonising somersault. The heavy thud of the car door closing was followed by the rhythmic click of heels on the driveway—a sound I’d recognise anywhere.

I heard the key turn in the lock. The front door opened, and the cold night air rushed in for a split second before the door clicked shut again. I heard her heavy sigh, the sound of someone who had had a long, exhausting day of being a powerful woman, followed by the soft rustle of her coat being hung up and heels being kicked off.

The silence in the lounge was so fucking heavy I could practically hear the bubbles popping in my champagne glass. I heard her footsteps move past the lounge toward the kitchen.

"Alex? Darling, are you here?"