I undress as swiftly as my poor, dulled motor skills will allow, draping my clothes over the back of a nearby chaise longue and chucking several pillows off the bed so I can get access. As my exhausted body slides between the cool sheets I let out an actual moan of appreciation. What is this sorcery? Did angels pluck feathers from magical geese to stuff this mattress topper? I have never in my life been in a bed quite as comfortable, as cosseting, as this. After the tribulations of last night, it’s like going back to the womb.

A very soft, very expensive womb.

I snuggle further down into the bed, one perfect pillow cradling my cheek, and I close my eyes.

BRENDAN

I feel like the king of the fucking world. This building, a mixed-use skyscraper encompassing retail, residential and some office space, is set to be the fucking bomb. It’s green, it’s glamorous, and has Sullivan written all over it. (Literally. Our hoardings are heavily branded.) I’m obsessed with momentum. Each project we undertake needs to build on the ones before. To push the envelope in terms of aesthetics and construction expertise. To show the world—and our shareholders—that Sullivan Construction will never rest on its laurels.

I grab a key card from the very attractive, very interested brunette at The Kingsley’s check-in desk and take myself up to the tenth floor where my suite is. I feel like a rockstar, and I want to fuck like one. I’ve been thinking all morning about how I’m going to take Marlowe. Maybe pressed up against the shower tiles first—a scorching hot quickie to take the edge off—before tying her up and edging the fuck out of her.

Yeah.

That’s what I’ll do.

If this morning’s site visit was foreplay for my ego, having the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on restrained and writhing and begging for my cock will have my self-confidence going stratospheric. I know she loves it when I’m in alpha mode. I know submitting to me gets her off like nothing else.

Except that when I swagger into our suite, the very same beautiful woman is not lying back for me, legs spread and smile teasing, like I’d demanded. Instead, she appears to be out cold.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

‘Hey, love,’ I say quietly. I don’t want to scare the bejesus out of her, as my parents would say.

Nothing.

I tiptoe closer. She’s snoring very softly and very prettily. One arm is folded over the covers, its hand under her cheek, its shoulder temptingly golden. The rest of her is concealed. Her gorgeous hair is splayed over the pillow.

‘Marls?’ I whisper.

Still nothing.

Fuck.