Chapter 15: Too Sexy To Stop

I woke up later than usual.

Sunlight had already sliced through the linen curtains, flooding the room with a warm glow far too bright for a lazy morning. I blinked, groaned, and glanced at the clock on my nightstand.

7:46.

Late…

At least by my standards. Definitely by my office’s standards. And absolutely by the standards of a man who scheduled his life like a four-star general.

Dragging myself out of bed felt like hauling my body out of a nightmare, except it wasn’t a dream. No, my life had actually turned into a front-row melodrama written by the devil with a bad sense of humor.

I shuffled into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and let the hot water pound against my shoulders. The chill faded from my skin, but not from my mind. Last night had stretched too long. Madeline Milano and that venom-laced mouth of hers, her words were still clinging to my brain like a stain that refused to wash out.

The woman he needs. For now.

Bastard.

Ten minutes under the water and fifteen more standing in front of my closet, debating why I apparently owned nothing that didn’t remind me of a time when my life wasn’t a disaster, I finally made it downstairs. Hair damp. Clothes crisp. Pace fast.

And there he was.

Reagan Milano.

Leaning against the kitchen island, a bottle of water in one hand, a thin black t-shirt clinging to his body like a second skin. His chest was still rising and falling. Hair damp and tousled. I didn’t need a confession to know, he’d just finished working out. Probably boxing. Or maybe running through the pine woods like some cologne ad model with no real problems in life except choosing between a private jet or a helicopter.

I paused at the doorway, just staring at his back. The broad shoulders. The almost-arrogant biceps. The smooth shift of muscle under his shirt as he poured water into a crystal glass.

The man was a sin wrapped in confidence, topped with a low baritone that could make anyone forget their name.

“Finally awake,” he said casually, still not looking at me.

I raised an eyebrow, walked in, and opened the fridge, trying to ignore the storm of energy radiating off him.

“Didn’t sleep well,” I muttered, grabbing eggs and almond milk. “Someone decided to ruin the air quality last night.”

He chuckled with that deep, sinful laugh. “Strange. You used to sleep great… when you were in my arms.”

My hand froze over the cutting board.

He still didn’t turn around, but I could feel his smirk. That crooked, signature Reagan Milano smirk.

I turned slowly, shooting daggers with my eyes. He stayed leaned against the counter, sipping his water, those storm-grey eyes unapologetically fixed on me.

“I could help you sleep again, Gee,” he said, voice calm, tone dangerous. “My bed’s open. Italian linen sheets, perfect lighting, memory-foam pillows... and the arms you clearly miss. Full package.”

With a sigh, I set the knife down and reached for the dish towel on the counter. Without hesitation, I tossed it straight at his smug face.

Ploff.

It hit him dead-on before floating elegantly to the floor.

He burst out laughing. Louder now, genuinely enjoying every second of my suffering.

“I had other ways to wake you,” he said, picking up the towel and placing it back. “But I figured... thin shirts and morning sarcasm were more effective.”

I glared at him, turning back to my breakfast, cracking eggs into the pan while fighting the image of smashing them over his head instead.

He stepped closer, grabbed a mug, and poured himself some coffee. Slow, effortless, and annoyingly attractive for someone who’d just finished cardio.

“Do you always wear that when you work out?” I snapped. “Or is this some kind of visual torture for the average female?”

He took a sip, eyes never leaving mine. “You just called me hot.”

“I did not—”

“Your words: ‘visual torture.’ Translation: sexy.”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I turned my back, shoved bread into the toaster, and muttered, “You seriously need a refresher course in basic manners.”

He stepped closer. I could feel his breath behind me. “I don’t need manners, Gee,” he murmured, voice dropping. “I just need you to admit… you still think about the way I held you.”

I closed my eyes. Then hissed, “I’d rather sleep with a bear in the woods.”

He leaned in, whisper soft, “A bear can’t make you tremble with one touch.”

I growled, grabbing my coffee. “Stop talking, or I swear I’ll use this spoon as a weapon.”

:::

One thing had always been true about Reagan Milano: He had everything. Except taste in kitchens.

So, I did the only thing I could to stay sane in this absurd house..I cooked. Again.

The smell of chilaquiles verdes was already filling the air as I drizzled fresh salsa over crisped tortillas, sprinkled cotija cheese, and layered on delicate slices of avocado. The kitchen, absurdly expensive by normal human standards, felt a little more human when it smelled like hot oil and roasted chiles.

Reagan was perched on a stool across the island, still in that clingy black t-shirt, hair tousled like it was trying to make a fashion statement. He looked at me like I was doing something magical, his expression somewhere between hungry and... something worse.

“So,” he finally said, sipping his coffee, “I can’t come to your office today.”

I flipped a tortilla in the skillet, not bothering to turn around. “Oh no. The loss of our guest of honor with a stadium-sized ego. However will we survive?”

He chuckled, “You’re really mean before 9 a.m.”

“And you’re insufferable all the time.”

He set down his cup and pulled something out of his pocket. A car key. Small, sleek, with the logo of a sports car that only existed in midlife crisis catalogs.

“Take this,” he said casually, placing it on the counter. “So you don’t have to take the subway with the commoners.”

I stared at the key like it was cursed. “I have a car.”

He shrugged. “But mine’s faster. And… prettier.”

“Cars aren’t about looks, Reagan.”

He grinned. “You. Haven’t. Driven. It.”

I sighed and slid a plate across the counter to him. “You think I’m going to fall for leather seats and an overpriced engine?”

His eyes locked onto mine, smoky and just a little wicked. “That wasn’t the plan. I just don’t want you to be late. Or worse, cornered by underground fashion bloggers on the train.”

I wanted to throw the plate at him. Instead, I deadpanned, “No thanks. I’ll call an Uber.”

He laughed like I’d just said the funniest thing on Earth.

“Gee,” he said, leaning back in his stool, “do you honestly think Uber operates out here? The only vehicle allowed on this private road besides mine… is a cop car. And even then, only for a murder investigation.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean, out here?”

He raised a brow, feigning innocence. “We live in the pine woods, sweetheart. One access road, digital gates, 24-hour security, and…” he pointed behind me toward the giant window, “a private lake. You think some poor Uber driver’s gonna risk getting lost in the wilderness for five stars?”

I groaned, pressing my fingers to my temple. “I can walk to the main road.”

He smirked, rising from the stool and strolling toward me, “Or…” he murmured, “you could let me drive you.”

I shot him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He leaned closer, one hand braced on the counter, the other twirling the key between his fingers. “Flatter? No. I’m just being realistic.”

“Realistic?” I muttered with a snort.

“Yeah. Realistic about the fact that I’m going to win.” He straightened, headed to the key rack by the wall, “Grab your bag. I’m taking you this morning.”

My mouth opened, ready to protest.

He turned then, eyes serious. “I wasn’t asking, Sweetheart.”

I sighed, looked at my half-finished breakfast, then back at his retreating figure.

Reagan Milano. The man who could buy the world and bulldoze his way into my morning like a storm too sexy to stop.

And today, that storm was driving.