Page 2 of Secret Heir For The Billionaire Twin

My third orgasm builds slower, wider, spreading from my core outward until my entire body hums with it, and when it finally releases, I grip the cushions above my head and simply let it take me, trusting him to hold the rest of me together. My moans are as loud as the thunder.

He follows only seconds later, his own rhythm turning erratic, deep, and I feel him pulse inside me as he stills his body, and empties himself with a final, guttural sound against my throat. I feel his warm seed fill every inch of my walls. He collapses over me, his weight a welcome pressure, both of us breathing hard, chests heaving in the aftermath.

The rain continues to fall outside the glass, softer now, and I trace idle patterns along his damp back as our heartbeats slow together, tangled and spent on the poolhouse cushions, the storm outside nothing compared to the one we just made. He lifts his head eventually, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his gaze soft in a way that makes my chest tighten. I pull him back down against me, unwilling to let the moment end just yet, and we lie there together, skin against skin, listening to the last of the storm fade into a gentle patter against the glass.

Neither of us moves to reach for the clothes scattered across the poolhouse floor. His fingers trace slow lines along my spine, absent, unhurried, and I feel the last of the tension leave his body beneath my palm where it rests over his heart. Steam rises faintly off our skin in the cool air, and through the glass ceiling the clouds have begun to thin, letting the first gray light of evening filter down over us. I press my lips to his chest, tasting salt and rain one more time, as I settle deeper into the cushions. I’m in no rush at all to let this moment end.

PART ONE

**SEVEN YEARS AGO**

Chapter One

Sophie

My phone begins vibrating across the kitchen island just as I reach for the coffee pot, and I don't even have to look at the screen to know it isn't a social call.

Grace Okafor doesn't believe in unnecessary conversations before 8AM. In the seven years I've worked for her, she's trained everyone on staff to associate an early-morning phone call with breaking news, political scandal, or someone's spectacular career implosion. None of those conversations have ever started with, Good morning. How are you?

I glance at the clock on the microwave.

7:12 AM.

Too early for pleasantries.

I sigh, wipe my hands on a dish towel, and reach for the phone before it has the chance to ring again.

"Please tell me the world isn't ending before I've had coffee."

A quiet laugh greets me from the other end of the line.

"I was hoping you'd answer exactly like that."

I can't help smiling.

"That doesn't sound reassuring."

"It shouldn't."

I walk back to the counter and finish pouring my coffee, inhaling the familiar scent before taking my first sip. My apartment is still wrapped in the comfortable silence of an ordinary Tuesday morning. Sunlight filters through the oversized windows overlooking the tree-lined street below, casting long golden rectangles across the hardwood floors. It's my favorite time of day, before traffic grows louder and before my inbox fills with requests that somehow become emergencies the moment they reach me.

I've always liked quiet mornings. They remind me that the day still belongs to me. At least for a little while.

"I'm listening," I say, settling onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

"I have an assignment."

"You always have an assignment."

"This one is different."

Grace doesn't exaggerate. She never has. It's one of the reasons I accepted a full-time position at The Ledger after years of freelancing. Plenty of editors chase headlines. Grace chases stories, and there's a difference. Headlines disappear after a day or two. Stories have a way of lingering.

I straighten a little in my chair.

"What kind of different?"

"I received a call yesterday afternoon."