How to Belong with a Billionaire (Arden St. Ives #3)

by Alexis Hall

And all at once, the world got a whole lot simpler. Because I recognised what George was looking for. It was what I’d tried to give to Caspian. What I’d needed to give. The impossible tangle of strength and vulnerability that was submission.

Passion can be a compelling distraction, but what you want is less important than what is good for you.” Watching Caspian piss off both his ex and current partner simultaneously shouldn’t have been endearing. But you had to admit, it took some skill. I mean, I wasn’t mad keen on being characterised as the romantic equivalent of a McFlurry, but then, I don’t think Nathaniel could have been enjoying his role as love kale either.

Jesus. This was like pulling teeth. From inside other teeth. Which were in cement.

Oh, wait. What was I saying? This was Caspian Hart. Not speaking to you for three months, then glaring at you coldly was practically his love language.

I did. A little bit. But it was winter in the garden of my fucks right now.

I rolled about in helpless dismay. “Why is past me so wise when present me is a hot mess?” “No, no,” said Nik reassuringly, “past you was a hot mess too. It’s just you very occasionally say sensible things and it’s so shocking I always remember them.”

I just tend to prefer my drinks pink, sweet, and bristling with unnecessary cocktail umbrellas. Y’know, like me.

I’d seen enough BBC cooking shows to recognise that floating islands demonstrated some hard-core cheffing. But whatever. I smashed those smug meringue bastards with my spoon and drowned them in the crème anglaise.

“Right.” I folded my arms—since it was that or start waving them around like an enraged albatross.

Oh God. Mum. It was like everything inside me, blood, bones, organs, my fucking mitochondria, lurched with the shame of what I’d done, and nearly done, to her. How the fuck was I going to tell her? I mean, she’d forgive me. Of course she would. She was Mum. But, somehow knowing that just made it worse. It briefly occurred to me that I could run away to France and become an itinerant baguette seller.

“Do you want one?” “Nope. The whole world can be our sex dungeon.” I smirked at him over my shoulder. “You can cuff me to the kitchen table. And spank me on the sofa. And put me on my knees in the shower. And, oh”—another idea occurred to me—“can we have fairy lights? I love fairy lights.”