Ignored and Neglected by My Billionaire Husband (Billionaire Marriage in Crisis #17)

1. Anika

— ? —

Anika

The entire restaurant was empty except for us.

I’d been married to Neil Franco for eight years, and he still found ways to make my stomach flip. Tonight, he’d bought out Lumière. All forty-two tables, the private wine cellar, the rooftop terrace with its view of the Manhattan skyline. Just so we could have dinner alone.

Our actual anniversary was Friday. But Friday belonged to Sundream, the tech acquisition that had consumed Neil’s life for the past six months.

The deal signing was scheduled for that morning, and the celebratory dinner with the CEO would take his evening.

So we were celebrating early. Anniversary week, he called it.

Like spreading it across seven days made up for not having the actual night.

I told myself it didn’t matter. The gesture was what counted.

“You look impressed,” he said, not looking up from the wine list.

“You bought a restaurant.”

“I rented it. For the evening.” He finally lifted those dark eyes to mine, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in that way that made my thighs press together under the table. “Big difference.”

“Is there?”

“About twelve million dollars.”

I laughed, and the sound echoed in the empty space. White roses cascaded from every surface, my favorite, though I couldn’t remember ever telling him that. He just knew. Neil always just knew things, filed them away in that ruthless brain of his and deployed them when I least expected it.

The sommelier had vanished after pouring our champagne, leaving us alone with the soft clink of glasses and the distant murmur of the city below.

I watched Neil scan the wine list like he was reading a contract, all focus and intensity, and I wondered if he had any idea what that did to me.

The way his jaw tightened when he concentrated.

The way his fingers wrapped around the stem of his glass confidently.

Sometimes I still couldn’t believe it. The boy who’d given me his jacket in the rain had become this. A man who moved through the world like he owned it. Because mostly, he did.

“Come here,” Neil said.

“I’m eating.”

“You’ve had three bites of risotto in twenty minutes.” His voice dropped, and the command in it sent heat spreading through my chest. “Come here.”

I set down my fork and walked around the table. He pushed his chair back and pulled me onto his lap in one fluid motion, his hand sliding to the small of my back like it belonged there. Which it did. His palm was warm through the silk of my dress, his fingers splayed possessively across my spine.

“Happy anniversary week,” he murmured against my temple.

“Happy anniversary week.” I traced the line of his jaw, freshly shaved, sharper than any man had a right to be.

He’d been twenty-two when we met, all charm and ambition and a smile that promised trouble.

Now he was thirty-four, and the trouble had materialized into a fortune, a reputation, and a presence that made people step aside when he walked into a room. “Eight years.”

“Eight years of you telling me what to do.”

“And you’re pretending you don’t like it.”

His laugh vibrated through me. That laugh, the one he only gave me, still made me feel like I’d won something. Some women married men who brought them flowers. I’d married a man who laughed like that, and I’d never stopped wanting to earn it.

“I have news,” I said.

“Tell me.” His thumb traced circles on my hip, distracting. Intentionally distracting, probably.

“Anwesha called. She is giving me another show. A real one. Solo.”

“The gallery owner? The one with the…” He gestured vaguely at his ears.

“The statement earrings, yes. She wants thirty paintings. A full exhibition. My name on the banner. I’ve done at least half of it now. Some were done a year ago.”

Neil’s face broke into that grin, the one that made him look like the twenty-two-year-old who’d asked me to be his girlfriend while we both dripped rainwater on the library steps. That smile still undid me.

“You’ll smash it,” he said, reaching past me for his wine glass.

I waited for the follow-up. The questions. What’s the theme? When does it open? How are you feeling about it? The words hovered on my tongue, ready to pour out. The weight of thirty paintings. The timeline that made my chest tight every time I thought about it.

Neil took a sip of his Bordeaux and set down the glass. His hand returned to my hip.

“The risotto’s getting cold,” he said.

I swallowed the explanation I’d been preparing. The detailed timeline. The concept sketches I’d already started. He didn’t ask, so I didn’t offer.

It’s fine, I told myself. The night is good. Don’t ruin it.

“Let it,” I said instead, and kissed him.

He tasted like wine and eight years of knowing exactly what I wanted. His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, and I felt the shift in him. The moment he stopped being patient. The moment the CEO disappeared and something far more dangerous took his place.

“Anika.” My name in his mouth. “We should finish dinner.”

“Should we?”

His answer was to lift me onto the table.

The risotto didn’t survive. Neither did my composure. Neil swept the plates aside like they were nothing, probably cost a fortune, definitely didn’t matter, and pressed me back against white linen. His hot mouth traced a path down my throat, and I arched into him without meaning to.

“Here?” I gasped. “Neil, the staff…”

“Gone.” His hands found the zipper at my back, tugging it down with practiced efficiency. “Everyone’s gone. I made sure.”

Of course he had. Neil Franco didn’t leave details to chance.

The dress pooled at my waist, and his eyes went dark. That look. Hungry and reverent at the same time, like I was something precious he wanted to devour. He stood back for a moment, just looking, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

“There she is,” he murmured.

He reached for me, and his hands were everywhere. Unhooking my bra with one hand while the other palmed my breast, his thumb brushing over my nipple until I whimpered. He bent his head and took it into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me cry out.

“Neil.”

“I love the way you say my name.” His voice was rough against my skin. “Say it again.”

“Neil, please.”

He bit down gently, and my hips bucked against him. “Tell me what you want.”

“You. I want you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes black with want. “You have me. You’ve always had me.”

He kissed me then deeply, consuming, his tongue stroking against mine while his hands worked down my body.

He hooked his fingers under the edge of my underwear and tugged, and I lifted my hips to help him.

The lace disappeared somewhere behind him, and then his fingers were there, parting me, stroking through the slick heat he’d created.

“Already so wet for me.” His voice dropped to that register that made my spine melt. “You were thinking about this at dinner, weren’t you? Sitting across from me, squeezing your thighs together, pretending to eat.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t lie to me, Anika.” He slid one finger inside, curling it against that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. “I could see it on your face. I always can.”

He added a second finger, stretching me, and his thumb found my clit with unerring precision. He knew my body better than I did sometimes. Knew exactly how much pressure, exactly what rhythm, exactly when to speed up and when to pull back and leave me desperate.

“Please,” I gasped. “Neil, I need…”

“I know what you need.” He withdrew his fingers slowly, making me whimper at the loss, and brought them to his mouth. He held my gaze while he tasted me, sucking them clean, and something about the rawness of it made my whole body clench. “But not yet. I’m not done with you.”

He dropped to his knees.

I tried to sit up, to reach for him, but he pressed a hand flat against my stomach and pushed me back down. “Stay.”

Then his mouth was on me.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t build up slowly.

He licked into me like a man who’d been starving for it, his tongue working in long, devastating strokes while his fingers dug into my thighs, holding me open for him.

I grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, trying to anchor myself against the sensation.

“Oh god. Oh god, Neil…”

He hummed against me, the vibration shooting straight through my core, and I felt myself climbing already. Too fast. It was always too fast when he did this, when he focused all that intensity on taking me apart.

He sealed his lips around my clit and sucked, and I shattered.

The orgasm tore through me, wave after wave, and he worked me through it mercilessly. When I finally came down, trembling and gasping, he rose to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The smile he gave me was pure male satisfaction.

“One,” he said.

Before I could respond, he was unbuckling his belt.

I watched him strip off his jacket, undo his cuffs, roll up his sleeves with deliberate slowness. Even now, even with me spread out and wrecked on the table in front of him, he moved like he had all the time in the world. Like he was in complete control.

“Turn over.”

The command sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I rolled onto my stomach, the tablecloth bunching under my hips, and heard his zipper slide down.

He ran one hand down my spine, from the nape of my neck to the curve of my ass. Appreciative.

“I think about this constantly,” he said. “You don’t even know. In the middle of meetings, in the middle of negotiations, I think about bending you over my desk and making you scream.”

“So do it.”

His laugh was dark. “Not tonight. Tonight I want to watch your face.”

He flipped me back over, pulled me to the edge of the table, and positioned himself at my entrance. I could feel him there, thick and hard and exactly what I needed, and I wrapped my legs around his waist trying to pull him in.

“Impatient,” he murmured.

“You made me come once and now you’re just standing there. Yes, I’m impatient.”