Page 92 of Falling for the Enemy

“Is it too much?” He hadn’t been gentle the last few times he had her, which was why he suggested a soak in the tub.

“I’ll live.”

He frowned. “Joce, if you’re sore⁠—”

She covered his mouth. “I’m fine. I promise.”

He stared into her eyes, reading the honesty he usually had to search for. “Okay.”

“As a matter of fact…” She took another sip of champagne and set the bottle aside. “I sort of like being in the power seat.” She rocked her hips, riding him slowly under the warm water.

“Don’t get too used to it.”

“You hush. It’s my turn to be the boss.”

His hand knotted in her bun, tugging her head back and exposing her throat. Leaning up, he licked the long column of her neck and nibbled her ear. “You like when I’m in control.”

Her laugh was confirmation enough.

After the bath, he’d made her the best macchiato she’d ever have. Jocelyn ran on a strict diet of sugar and caffeine, so once she was properly fed and watered, she was ready to go ten more rounds.

“I like seeing you in my things,” he said, trailing a finger down the lapel of his robe that hung off her shoulder.

“Me Soren. I territorial caveman. Me like Jocelyn in house,” she said in a gruff barbarian voice. “Have big house and big dog to compensate for little⁠—”

He kissed her. “Watch it.”

She laughed against his mouth, her kisses now tasting like sugared coffee. “We should order pizza and eat it in your big, fancy dining room. Do you have any oversized candelabras?”

“Actually, I do. But I was thinking about eating something else.”

“What?”

He scooped her into his arms and carried her through the house, not stopping until he set her down at the head of the table. “Lie back.” He untied the robe and eased her back. Once he lowered himself into the winged chair across from her, he yanked her to the edge and pushed open her knees. “Perfect. I’m starved.”

“Soren—” She gasped when he took his first taste.

Pulling her legs over his shoulders, he dug in, feasting like a king and not stopping until he ate his fill.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” Marie’s voice cut in, ripping him from the delicious memory. “Mr. Brennan is on line two.”

“Thank you, Marie.” Soren adjusted his pants and lifted the receiver. “Brennan.” He greeted, not wasting time with pleasantries. “Walk me through the logistics.”

The man on the other end explained tariff complications, port scheduling conflicts, and seasonal volatility in the New England market. Soren listened with the kind of focus that rewarded precision and punished excuses. His eyes moved across the harbor while his mind tracked three different problems simultaneously.

“Get me updated projections by Friday,” he cut in. “I want contingency routes for New England to protect our asses in case tariffs shift before Q1. Loop in environmental. You have the authority. Make it happen.”

He hung up without waiting for confirmation.

Marie was already there with the Parsons file and a freshly juiced mix of daily vitamins. “Q4 raw data, sir. Also, Olivia Aldrich called twice. Said it’s urgent.”

Soren took the file and opened it without responding to the second piece of information. His eyes moved across the numbers—revenue streams, cost per unit, projected growth margins. The data told stories few could translate, but he’d learned to speak this language as a young boy, imitating his dad in an ambitious hunt for recognition and praise that never came.

He flagged two line items for deeper investigation. Approved the spending on infrastructure that Parsons requested. Signed off on the quarterly projections with a note for the next quarter strategy. All in under ten minutes.

When he handed the file back to Marie, she informed him, “The strategic advisors are setting up in the east conference room. You have forty minutes.”

“Good.”