Imperfect Match (Elixir Bachelor Billionaires #1)

It’s no hard guess which side is Charles’ on this bed. There are two leadership books neatly stacked on the nightstand, along with his notepad with an engraved Hawthorne crest and a matching ballpoint pen.

And of course it’s also the one I claimed last night.

Did I do it intentionally? Of course not. I was too nervous to make all those observations yesterday.

If anything, last night was a gift of revelations in so many ways. For the last four years, I’ve wondered if my boss even sleeps in his expensive tailor-made three-piece suits, but God, those suits fade in comparison to how Charles looks in black track pants and a matching T-shirt. The corded muscles of his neck, his shoulder blades, and that broad chest that remains hidden was all there for my eyes and my eyes only. The time he spends in the gym is definitely worth it if this is the result, and for a change, I’m happy that Charles hides all this masculinity behind his suits.

His usually perfect hair was a bit amiss, one dark blond curl falling over his forehead as he read his emails, his forehead furrowing in the process.

I couldn’t have spelled my name if someone had asked me, so noticing which side of the bed I claimed was definitely not in my focus.

But he didn’t correct me.

Is he the same man who guards his private space tighter than the security at the Louvre?

I slowly rise, resting my weight on my elbows behind my back and peering at the couch.

But it’s bare, without a trace of a pillow or the black duvet Charles had near his feet last night.

I glance at the clock, and it’s been eight hours since the man whom I nicknamed asshole kissed me right in the middle of this room. My fingers involuntarily drift to my lips, but they weren’t the only thing Charles touched last night. His grip was on my shoulders and my waist, and his fingers locked in my hair, tugging just enough to make me feel alive.

And then there was his unmistakable erection sliding against my stomach. Even through layers and layers of my wedding gown, I could feel it as Charles slightly rocked me, rubbing me over his hard length. I’m not a virgin, but Charles’ touch was damn powerful in a way I’ve never been touched before.

“What the heck?” I almost lurch at the sound of the cuckoo bird call that is accompanied by the sound of a gong from Charles’ wall clock.

My thighs jerk and I’m wetter than I’ve ever been, making me aware of new information—the memory of kissing my husband is my personalized and most potent foreplay.

I get out of bed and go in search of the man who’s the leading star of my dreams and thoughts these days. It doesn’t take much effort to find Charles, dressed immaculately in a fine black suit with a cup of black coffee before him. His gaze lifts from the tablet in his hand, where he’s busy reading the morning business news.

How do I know this?

Because I’m the one authorizing the payments for all those annual subscriptions, plus I’ve memorized my boss’ schedule by heart.

Yet, you didn’t know a whole lot about him—like he can melt you like butter with just a touch of his lips.

“Good morning.” I do a small wave when Charles simply stares at me for a beat. I wait for him to comment on me getting up so late and still being in my pajamas, but nothing.

Instead, Charles places the tablet back onto the table and rises from his chair. I freeze in place when he walks toward me.

“It’s definitely a good morning. You are finally mine, Mrs. Hawthorne.” His lips, which usually remain flat, curl to one side before he holds my face.

My breathing stops and my brain short-circuits when his thumb runs along my cheek before he leans in. My eyes fall closed as I wait for a peck like yesterday at the altar, because of course I know Charles losing control last night in his bedroom was something that happens probably once in a decade. But when his lips touch mine, fireworks go off in my head. His mouth, even though closed the entire time, works like magic.

When Charles finally pulls back, my hands are clutching his perfectly pressed suit jacket, leaving wrinkles in their wake. His one hand is still on my face, while the other is wrapped around my waist, supporting me in place.

“Definitely a good morning.” He winks, and before I can ask him what the hell is going on, his housekeeper, Mrs. K, as she’s called by everyone but Charles, clears her throat.

So much for not kissing for an audience. Hypocrite.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hawthorne. How do you take your coffee?” Her eyes crinkle with amusement as if surprised by this side of her boss.

That makes two of us.

“She’ll have two sugars and half a cup of milk.” Charles doesn’t even bother looking at her as he leads me to the chair next to him, surprising me some more.

“How do you know how I take my coffee?” I hiss while he replies with a grin.

For someone who can’t keep that perpetual scowl away for less than two seconds, he definitely met a happiness fairy and got dusted with some happiness dust this morning.