Chapter 40 #3
I tilted his chin upward again, trying hard not to notice how easily his eyes locked on mine.
How did he manage to look so composed while clearly needing my help with something so basic?
This was the same man who meticulously assembled furniture, balanced multimillion-dollar contracts, and intimidated entire courtrooms without breaking a sweat—but shaving was too advanced for him?
“You know,” I said lightly, running the razor carefully along his jawline, “most millionaires have people to handle this kind of thing. You couldn’t find one lackey who can shave properly?”
“I don’t trust lackeys,” he said quietly, perfectly still beneath my touch.
“But you trust me?”
Marco opened his eyes. “More than lackeys.”
A slow smirk tugged at my lips, and I ran the razor down his jaw carefully.
“But really, are you secretly vain, Marco? Is that it?”
He shot me a flat look. “No.”
He paused—kind of froze there for a second, looking at his hand. And something about his silence made me pause. Made me pay attention.
“My foster father had a thing about mirrors,” he finally said, still not looking at me. He kept staring down at his hands. “He liked to use them as teaching tools. Lessons, I guess you could call them.”
I frowned. “Teaching tools?”
Marco let out a breath like he was bothered I didn’t understand him. “He thought it was important I saw exactly who I was becoming. Or maybe who he thought I already was.” He shrugged one shoulder as if he were talking about something meaningless. “To put it simply.”
I didn’t say anything for a second. I didn’t know what to say either. Marco wasn’t exactly known for oversharing. He was good at deflecting, dodging, at staying so controlled you could never quite tell what he was thinking. This time I was getting something from him.
“And you never liked what you saw?”
He shook his head, cutting me off gently. “No.”
I had no idea what to do with that other than hold onto it carefully and try not to screw it up.
“Well, you should know, I like what I see when I look at you,” I admitted before I could think better of it.
He looked up, one eyebrow lifting slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right. “You do?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I said, shrugging as if it weren’t a big deal, even though my heart was doing some Olympic-level gymnastics. “You’re objectively handsome, Marco. It’s borderline annoying how good-looking you are.”
He let out a quiet huff through his nose. “Spare me.”
I ignored him, taking my time as I wiped the razor clean. “Mi gringo,” I added teasingly.
He actually smiled.
It did something to me.
Which was why, without thinking, I tapped his chin lightly and said, “Stop smiling. You’re gonna make me nick you again.”
His smirk lingered, but he did as I said, eyes falling down like he was amused.
I ran the razor along the edge of his jaw, wiping the blade against the damp towel in my lap. “Tilt your head back.”
He did, exposing the line of his throat, the hard edge of his Adam’s apple. He was letting me take a razor to his neck, letting me glide something sharp over his skin, and he wasn’t thinking twice about it.
I dragged the razor down the last patch of scruff, wiping the blade off against the towel. His skin was smooth now, free of the rough stubble I’d decided I liked, but I guessed it was too late to take it back.
I tilted my head, inspecting my work. “There. No more scruff.”
I tossed the razor onto the counter, reaching for the towel to wipe off the last bit of shaving cream clinging to his jaw. He let me do it—let me smooth the fabric over his skin like he wasn’t in a rush. Like this wasn’t the last place he wanted to be.
“Thank you,” he said as his hands slowly traveled up my thighs, pushing them apart to step in between them.
“You’re welcome,” I murmured, setting the towel aside.
I put my hands on his shoulders, wrapping my arms loosely around him.
Broad shoulders. The kind that made you forget what you were talking about mid-sentence.
Dangerous, really—especially when you were sitting on a bathroom counter at six-something in the morning, pretending you weren’t desperately attracted to your own husband.
Marco tipped his head forward, nuzzling closer, until his mouth brushed along my neck, his breath warm against my skin.
Just like that, innocence was entirely off the table.
God, he felt good.
I tilted my head slightly, giving him better access—because clearly, my self-control was nonexistent—and felt his lips trace a slow, deliberate path along the curve of my throat.
Heat pooled embarrassingly fast in my stomach.
Traitorous body, betraying me the minute Marco Grey came close enough to breathe on me.
“We’re going to be late,” I whispered weakly, mostly to remind myself.
His mouth curved slightly against my neck, and he murmured, “Fuck, I know.”
“You’re never late, Marco,” I reminded him, even as my fingers tightened against his shoulders, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
I was hopeless.
His hand slid up, fingers brushing lightly over my thigh in a way that sent a pulse of heat straight between my legs. Marco drew back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes dark, that dangerous half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“We only have five minutes,” I offered, my voice breathless and entirely too hopeful.
He leaned forward again, lips barely brushing my ear as he whispered, “I can make you come in three.”
My dignity—and any lingering thought of punctuality—went straight out the window.
And, as it turned out, Marco was a man of his word.