Aubrey
Near midnight, I'm barefoot on Linden's stairs with one hand on the rail, moving through a penthouse gone quiet after a day arranged too carefully around my sore ankle to be accidental. My tote isn't in the entry where I dropped it. My witness packet is still stacked on the dining table.
One specific billionaire is still a problem: my husband. I'm talking about when he said he didn't want the marriage to end when the paperwork said it should.
The main level is mostly dark now, except for the kitchen and the windows beyond the living room. Then I hear the kettle.
Linden stands at the kitchen island in a shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled to his forearms, no jacket, no tie. His hair is less controlled than usual, and his wedding band catches me for half a second.
"You're limping," he says.
"Good evening to you, too," I reply.
He shrugs. On the island are two mugs, a teapot, crackers, and cheese cut into uneven pieces. No tray. No staff.
"I couldn't sleep," he says.
"Join the club." I make it to the island and lean my hip against the edge to take weight off my ankle. He notices, then goes back to the tea.
"Sit down," he commands.
I stare at him. "Are you ordering me?"
"No. I'm asking badly."
I smile. "That may be the most self-aware sentence you've ever said."
He pulls out the stool, then steps back so there's space for me to decide whether to take it. I sit.
He sets the mug in front of me. Tea.
"Bit late for caffeine, isn't it?" I ask him.
"Up to you."
I shrug, take a sip. My ringer finger stings a tad and I flinch.
Serves me right for fiddling with it earlier.
He sees that. "Does it hurt?"
"Tiny bit, yes," I tell him.
He nods. No lecture. He only pushes the plate of cheese closer.
He sets his tea mug down. "I'm going to say this badly. I don't want to use the fact that we've already had sex again. I don't want to use what I said earlier and make it a debt you owe me."
My fingers tighten around the mug.
"If you want me to go upstairs, I'll go," he continues. "If you want tea and crackers and an awkward conversation about testimony prep, we'll do that. But..." He pauses, and something in his eyes makes my breath hitch. "If you want me to kiss you, I want to kiss you, too. Very, very fucking much."
I can't help the sudden wetness I feel in my panties.
I swallow. "I'm still your legal wife."
He nods. "Yes."
I cock my head. "And you're still you."
"I'm me," he agrees.
"You still have more money than God and fewer normal social habits than the average person," I press.
"Also true."
I glower. "I'm serious."
He shrugs. "So am I."
I push the mug away. "I need this to be mine, too. The choice. If I say yes, I need to know you won't expect me to say yes again."
"No expectations," he agrees. "Choose. Or don't. I'll take either answer."
I glance around. "Is the kitchen recorded?"
He shakes his head. "Door coverage only. No audio. No one's watching us in this room."
I believe him because he says it plainly and doesn't look insulted that I asked.
"So if I say yes tonight," I say, "you'll stop if I say stop."
He nods. "I will stop."
"If I hesitate?" I press.
"I stop and ask," he answers.
"Good," I reply. "You've met me."
"I have. Several times."
I want him so badly my thighs press together on the stool. Tonight, I'm sitting at a kitchen island with tea cooling between us while he waits for me to decide what I can bear.
Shit.
Wanting his mouth is simple.
But wanting breakfast with him tomorrow scares the hell out of me.
"I want you to kiss me," I say.
His hand flexes once against his thigh. He doesn't come around the island yet.
"Say it without making it smaller," he insists.
My face heats. "I want you to kiss me. And I want it because I want it. Not because of anything else. Not because you said something earlier and I don't know what to do with it."
"What do you want after the kiss?" he asks.
I giggle. "I don't have a notarized agenda."
"I'm not asking for one," he says without smiling at all. "I'm asking because I need to know where your line is."
Linden comes around the island slowly, stopping two feet away from my knees. From the stool, I have to look up at him, and my body reacts with a shameful little internal cheer.
Did I mention my panties were soaking?
Yeah.
Yeah I did.
"I want you to touch me," I say.
"Where?"
"My waist. My hips. My face." My voice thins, so I clear my throat. "I want you to tell me what to do. And... and I hate saying that out loud."
"You don't hate wanting it," he counters.
I stare at his shirt buttons. "I'm considering hating it recreationally."
"You hate that I know," he corrects.
My hands go still.
Linden lifts one hand, palm open near my cheek, but he doesn't touch me. He's waiting.
"Green," I say, because I'm not sure what he wants me to say.
His palm touches my cheek. Warm skin, blunt fingers, his thumb near the corner of my mouth. My whole body answers like he's put his hand somewhere much less polite.
He bends, and still pauses.
"Yes," I whisper.
His mouth opens over mine with slow pressure, and my hands go to his shirt because I need to hold onto something that is actually him.
His other hand settles at my waist, his fingers spreading over the soft give of my side without squeezing.
I whimper into his mouth.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his hand sliding from my cheek into my hair. He doesn't pull. He holds.
The stool is in the way.
"Island?" he asks.
"We're not defiling the tea station," I declare against his lips.
"It'll survive." His hands move to my hips and he helps me off the stool. He turns me toward the island, keeping his body between me and any wobble from my ankle. He bends his knees, uses the counter and his strength, and lifts just enough to sit me on the edge.
My thighs part around him and he steps between my knees. I curl one hand at the back of his neck and kiss him passionately.
His hands come to my thighs, thumbs pressing inward. My hips shift into the pressure.
"Are you wet already for me?" he asks.
My face flames. "What kind of a question is that?"
"Tell me," he presses.
There's no anger in it. No demand backed by power. Just his voice, steady and sure, doing what I asked for.
My pussy clenches so hard I have to put a hand behind me on the counter.
"You know it is," I say. "I'm soaking wet."
"For me," he declares.
"Don't get smug."
"I'm not smug." He kisses the side of my jaw. "I'm grateful."
His mouth moves slowly down my neck.
"Linden," I gasp.
He pauses. "Yes?"
"Bedroom," I declare.
He goes still.
The word matters the second I say it. My suite is protected. His room is his. The contract gave us separate doors because I needed to keep a piece of myself out of reach.
"Yours or mine?" he asks.
"Yours," I answer immediately.
His eyes hold mine. "You're sure."
"I am."
He hesitates. "Say why."
I gaze into his eyes. "Because I'm choosing to go there. Because I don't want a loophole. Because I want you."
He kisses me once, hard, then helps me down from the island.
We go upstairs slowly because my ankle is stiff and because Linden refuses to let me pretend otherwise. His hand stays at my lower back, not pushing.
His bedroom is dim, with the city visible through the windows.
I stand near the foot of the bed and become aware of my outfit: T-shirt, pants, hair escaping the clip, no bra because I came downstairs under the dangerous assumption that tea was safe.
Linden stops with space between us. "Tell me what you need."
"I need you to not look at me like you're being polite about my body," I blurt out.
He doesn't answer right away.
"That came out weird," I offer.
"No, it didn't." He steps closer. "I know what your body is. I know how it feels under my hands. I want your stomach. Your hips. Your thighs. Your breasts. Your pussy. I want the parts you try to joke away because some asshole taught you to apologize for taking up space."
My eyes sting.
He lifts his hand and waits. "May I take this off?"
I nod.
He pulls the shirt over my head and drops it on the bed. As usual, my every instinct is immediate and stupid. Cross arms. Cover stomach. Turn away. Find a joke.
But I keep my hands at my sides.
Linden sees the effort. He doesn't comment.
Instead he kisses the top of one breast, then the space between, then the upper curve of my stomach. He kisses the soft middle of me with the same attention he gave my mouth.
"You don't have to worship my belly," I say.
"I don't take instructions from your insecurities." He kisses me there again. "Pants."
I frown. "Question mark?"
"Take them off," he orders.
I push my pants down, and my underwear follows.
"On the bed," he says. "Middle. Head on the pillows. Open your legs."
I climb onto the bed and lie back. Open my thighs.
He takes off his shirt and comes onto the bed beside me. He kisses my mouth. His hand moves over my shoulder, down my ribs, to my stomach. His palm spreads there, warm and heavy, then slides lower.
"Ask," he says.
"For what?"
"For what you want," he replies.
My face burns. "Your hand."
"Where?"
"On my pussy," I beg.
His eyes shut for half a second. When they open, his control is back. "Good girl."
Oh god I'm going to cum from his words alone.
I turn my face into the pillow.
"Oh, absolutely not." He catches my chin, gentle but firm, and brings me back. "Don't hide from the part you like."
His fingers slide between my thighs. The first touch over my clit makes my hips lift. His thumb makes slow circles over my clit, meanwhile his fingers move lower, through wetness that makes my face hot. His fingers part me.
He kisses my breast and takes my nipple into his mouth while his fingers work my clit. I get close much too fast.
"Linden..." I gasp.
"I know," he grits.
I can't take it. "I'm going to..."
"No," he intones, stopping.
My eyes fly open.
"Not yet," he continues. "You said you wanted my control. This is it. You wait because I tell you to wait. You cum because I tell you to cum. Understood?"
I nod slowly.