Chapter 8
GRANT
Four days pass in a blur of business calls and watching Samantha settle into the private wing like she’s always belonged here.
She’s careful, polite, and keeps to herself mostly, reading in the library or working on her laptop in her room. But I catch glimpses of her everywhere. In the kitchen, making coffee at dawn. At dinner each evening, the four of us fall into an easy rhythm that feels too natural for how new it is.
Kai makes her laugh. Donovan engages her mind. And I watch both things happen while trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing, allowing this woman to burrow deeper into our lives.
On the fifth day after Logan left, I’m in my office reviewing the Denver acquisition files when she appears in the doorway.
“Sorry.” She hesitates. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was looking for the cinema and got turned around.”
“It’s two doors down on the left.” I lean back in my chair. “But you’re welcome to come in.”
She glances behind her like she’s considering escape, then steps inside. “What are you working on?”
“Denver Tech Solutions. The acquisition Donovan and I discussed with Logan.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “It’s tedious.”
“Sounds thrilling.” She sits, tucking one leg under her.
“It’s necessary.” I close the laptop. “How are you settling in?”
“Good. Your staff has been incredible. I feel a bit useless, honestly.”
“You’re recovering from a fall down a mountain. You’re allowed to be useless for a few days.”
She smiles at that. “Fair point.”
Silence settles between us, but it’s not awkward.
“Can I ask you something?” I say finally.
“Sure.”
“Why did you stay with Logan?”
Her smile fades. “We’ve already talked about this.”
“Not really. You said you stayed through four instances of cheating because you thought he’d change.” I lean forward. “But you’re too smart to believe that. So what was the real reason?”
She looks away, fingers twisting in her lap. “Maybe I’m not as smart as you think.”
“You are. Which makes the question more interesting.”
“I don’t know,” she answers. “Inertia, maybe. Fear of starting over. The illusion that if I just waited long enough, he’d see me.”
“Did he ever?”
“No.” Her voice is quiet. “I don’t think Logan sees anyone beyond what they can do for him.”
The honesty in her tone makes me uncomfortable. I’ve known this about my son for years and watched him use people and discard them without conscience. But hearing it from someone who lived through it hits differently.
“You deserved better than that,” I tell her.
“Maybe I didn’t think I did.”
“Why?” I ask. “What makes you think you deserved to be treated like you didn’t matter?”
She takes a deep breath. “My mom died when I was eighteen,” she says. “Cancer. It was fast and brutal, and afterward I just…I don’t know. I felt like I was treading water. Like if I stopped moving, I’d drown.”
“Did you stay with Logan because moving on felt like drowning?”
“Something like that.” She wipes at her eyes quickly. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Because I asked.” I stand and move around the desk, leaning against it so I’m closer to her. “And because you need to tell someone.”
“My stepfather—Robert—he tries. But he lost her too. It’s hard for him to talk about.”
I file that information away. The stepfather she mentioned briefly. The one who’s been texting her since she arrived.
“What do you want, Samantha? What do you actually want from your life?”
She stares up at me, and I watch her process the question.
“I want to matter,” she says finally. “I want to do work that means something. Build something that lasts. I want to wake up and not feel like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”
“You’re not pretending now.”
“Aren’t I?” She laughs, but it’s hollow. “I’m sitting in a billionaire’s private office talking about my dead mother and my terrible ex-boyfriend. This isn’t exactly authentic living.”
“It’s more authentic than anything you had with Logan.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“Then raise it.” I reach out and touch her face, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. “Stop settling for low bars.”
She doesn’t pull away. She holds my gaze while my hand cups her jaw.
“Grant,” she whispers. Her lips part, breath trembling, and she does something unexpected. She rises onto her toes and kisses me.
The first brush is soft and testing. The second is not. I take her mouth like I’ve been starving for it, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her waist to pull her flush against me. She makes a small, desperate sound that shoots straight to my cock.
I lift her without thinking, setting her on the desk. My tongue strokes hers, slow and filthy, until her thighs part on instinct, and I step between them.
Her hands are suddenly frantic, yanking my shirt open. Buttons ping across the room. I let her, shrugging the fabric off my shoulders while I drag her top up and over her head. Lace bra, pale pink, barely containing her. I mouth along the edge, teeth scraping skin, and she arches hard.
“Grant,” she breathes.
I answer by sliding one hand straight into her leggings, cupping her through damp cotton. She’s soaked already. I press the heel of my hand against her clit, and she jerks, nails digging into my biceps.
“You’re soaked,” I mutter against her throat.
“I’ve been wet since the hallway,” she confesses, voice shaking. “Since I saw—”
I cut her off with another kiss, deeper, swallowing the rest of that sentence. I don’t need the reminder; I just need her.
I walk her backward until her spine hits the bookshelves. Old leather tomes press into her shoulders. I pin both her wrists above her head with one hand. The other dives back into her leggings, pushing lace aside. Two fingers slide inside her easily, curling, and her head thumps against the shelf.
“Oh, fuck—” Her hips roll, chasing my hand.
I pump slowly, thumb circling her clit, watching every flicker across her face. When I add a third finger, she starts to unravel, thighs trembling, breath hitching.
“Come for me right here,” I order, voice rough. “I want to feel it.”
She does, hard, her body clamping around my fingers, a choked cry muffled against my shoulder. I keep stroking through it, drawing it out until she’s sagging in my grip.
I ease my hand free. I lick her taste from my fingers while she watches, dazed.
I release her wrists only to strip the rest of her clothes away. Leggings peeled down toned legs, bra tossed aside. She’s naked, flushed, gorgeous. I drop to my knees long enough to spread her with my thumbs and drag one slow lick from her entrance to her clit. She cries out and clutches my hair.
Then I’m up again, belt clattering open, trousers shoved down just enough. I sit on the wide leather couch and pull her over me. She straddles willingly, hands braced on my shoulders, eyes locked on mine as she sinks down.
The heat of her takes my breath. I let her set the pace at first, slow, savoring, watching her bite her lip as she adjusts to every inch. When she’s fully seated, I grip her hips and take over, guiding her up and down, deeper, harder.
“Like that,” I rasp. “Take what you need.”
She nods, rolling her hips, grinding her clit against me on every downstroke. Her breasts bounce with the rhythm. I lean forward and catch one nipple in my mouth, sucking hard. She cries out, nails raking my scalp.
I flip us in one motion, laying her on her back, one of her legs hooked high over the back of the couch. The angle opens her completely. I drive in again, slow at first, then faster, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room.
“Look at me,” I growl.
Her eyes snap to mine. I slide a hand between us, thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight circles. She’s close again; I can feel it in the way she tightens around me.
“Come again, Samantha. Let me feel you milk me.”
That undoes her. She comes with a broken moan, back bowing off the couch, pussy pulsing so hard it drags me over the edge with her. I bury myself deep and let go, groaning her name against her neck as I spill inside her.
We stay locked together, breathing ragged, hearts hammering in sync. I press lazy kisses along her collarbone, tasting salt and her.
Eventually, I ease out and collapse beside her, pulling her into my chest. She curls there like she belongs, one leg thrown over mine, fingers tracing the ink on my ribs.
“That was…” she starts, voice hoarse.
“Long overdue,” I finish.
“Grant, what are we doing?”
“What do you want to be doing?”
She shifts to look up at me. “I don’t know. This is complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“You’re my ex-boyfriend’s father.”
“Your ex-boyfriend is an idiot who didn’t deserve you.” I tilt her chin up. “What we just did has nothing to do with Logan.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” But she’s not pulling away. If anything, she’s pressing closer.
“Does it feel like it’s about him?”
“No,” she admits. “It feels like it’s about us.”
“Then that’s what it is.”
She settles back against my chest, and I feel her breathing even out. For someone who just had world-altering sex in my office, she seems remarkably calm.
Too calm, maybe.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“That this is insane.” She laughs softly. “That I came here with your son and now I’m lying naked with his father. That I should probably feel guilty or confused or something.”
“But you don’t.”
“I do. Just not as much as I should.” She traces a finger along one of my tattoos. “What about you? Any regrets?”
“None.”
And I mean it. I’ve spent four days watching this woman exist in my space, fitting into my life with an ease that should bother me. She’s smart, beautiful, damaged in ways that make me want to fix things I have no business fixing.
But lying here with her, feeling her warmth against me, I can’t find it in myself to regret a single second.
“You should go,” I say eventually. “Before the staff starts evening rounds.”
“Kicking me out already?” But she’s smiling.
“Protecting your reputation.” I help her sit up. “We do this again, it won’t be quick and hidden.”
“Oh?” She starts dressing up. “You planning to do this again?”
“Are you saying you’re not?”
She doesn’t answer, just finishes dressing and heads for the door. But when she reaches it, she looks back at me. “Grant?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For listening. And for…” She gestures vaguely at the couch.
“Anytime.”
She slips out, and I’m left alone in my office, half-dressed and trying to process what just happened.
I slept with my son’s ex-girlfriend.
I should feel guilty and worried about how Donovan and Kai will react.
Instead, I’m already planning when I can have her alone again.