The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

“Jesus.” He pulled out of me and moved to my side, gathering me up into his arms. “Are you all right?”

I stared up at him in my dreamy state, confused. It was easily the best sex I’d had in my life, so, yeah. I was more than all right. I reached up, wiping away the bead of sweat that had formed near his hairline. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

His eyebrows pulled together. “That was rougher than I’d intended.”

I said it like an apology. “I pushed you.”

“You did.” His gaze washed over my face, searching to see if I’d lied to him and he’d accidentally hurt me. He traced a fingertip over my forehead, brushing the hair back out of my eyes, and his tender gesture after such aggression was shocking.

“Are you mad at me?”

Surprise flitted through his expression. “No. I was worried you would be with me.” His eyes went unfocused as he stared at my lips. “I have no business having sex like that.”

I blinked, and then a grin widened on my face. “Oh, so you didn’t like it?”

His attention snapped back to me. “That is not what I said.”

I laughed softly. “It was fucking hot, and you know it.”

He didn’t argue with me. All he did was sigh and shoot me a fake, stern look. “Language.”

And he grabbed my wrist, pinned it to the bed, and used his mouth to deliver a punishing kiss that left me unable to speak.

Before I left his house that morning, Macalister announced that going forward, I would ride to and from the office with him every day. It was wasteful for us to travel separately, and it’d give us more time to discuss work, he’d said. I was to park in one of the spaces of his garage and meet him in his foyer at seven a.m.

It didn’t take long to realize his true motive, but I wasn’t upset by it.

There was dinner for two waiting at his house when we arrived after work on Monday. We ate, and then he ordered me upstairs, and we’d barely made it inside his room before he’d had his hands up my skirt.

Although we didn’t spend every night together, because sometimes we had different obligations, it became a pattern. I’d text him my outfit for approval in the morning, drive over to his house, and then ride with him to work. And at the end of the day, I’d come home with him to have dinner, and sex, and conversation where he seemed intent on learning everything about me.

And then I’d hurry home to fall asleep so I could repeat it all over the next day.

He was typically great at shutting off the part of him I saw behind closed doors, but occasionally he’d slip on the drive home. He’d lean too close, or his fingers would graze across my thigh, or he’d tell me in a seductive voice he had plans for us after dinner.

His driver had to know we were fucking. By this point, most of his household staff did.

But the people who worked directly for Macalister Hale were well paid and had signed ironclad NDAs, and they were either too smart or too intimidated to leak the faintest whiff of his personal life.

Very few secrets ever came out of the Hale house.

I’d told Macalister he should view getting people to like him as a game, and holy shit—did that work. He began to look for ways to help. On the first Friday of August, he went out to dinner with Evangeline and some of her friends, and by the end of the evening, he’d arranged an introduction with the head of admissions at Cape Hill Prep for one of the couples who was desperate to get their thirteen-year-old in. Besides money, Macalister had accrued a vast network, and now that his reputation was climbing, it was easy for him to connect people.

The man who owned me was becoming the hero I’d hoped he could be.

He lamented my “terrible” taste in Netflix shows, but was stunned and impressed by my excellent taste in porn. One evening after dinner he’d taken me downstairs to his home theatre and streamed his favorite for me to watch while he went down on me. I’d leaned back in the recliner, his head buried happily between my thighs, and gazed up at the mesmerizing couple fucking on the huge screen.

I came twice before he pulled me down to the floor and on top of him, making me fuck him the same way the girl on-screen did. The whole experience was hot, but getting to see what specifically turned him on made it that much hotter. I loved how filthy he was, and how obsessed he’d become with giving me orgasms.

Shit, he was obsessed. Like it wasn’t a hobby but his one and only job.