Chapter 167
Ivan
I stare at my screen, reading Harry's frantic texts about meeting his in-laws.
He'll charm them. I don't know what he's so worried about, Harry is so loveable.
"Are you seriously on your phone right now?"
Zander's voice is low, amused. He presses a kiss to the inside of my foot — right against the new gold-and-sapphire anklet glinting on my skin.
Normal alphas send food or flowers. I, apparently, receive carats. I'm fairly certain my net worth has climbed by at least a million since we got mated.
He places soft, peppered kisses down my foot, trailing toward my ankle with infuriating focus.
"Curious," I ask, finally putting my phone away, "why jewelry instead of flowers?"
He hums, distracted, pushing my legs apart a little as he speaks.
"I don't know. Your eyes always sparkle when I give you something new."
Of course they do.
I think of Harry and his endless bouquets. Then of Jeremy and Zander's father, who once went fishing every single day for a month to bring his omega fresh catches.
How sweet.
So what does that say about me? That I'm a materialistic bitch?
I glance down at Zander, who's currently gazing at my legs like they're art worth worshiping.
Right. That's probably why I'm mated to a billionaire anyway.
***
Zander
Ivan is on my lap, snickering like a villain in a low-budget film, eyes glued to the computer screen. He's far too pleased with himself, which is dangerous—I know that expression. It means he's done something mischievous.
Meanwhile, my focus is on the numbers flashing across the screen. Dorian's company valuation has hit nearly a million dollars. One million. In under a year.
That's not ambition—that's divine intervention.
I scroll through his data again, frowning. "This doesn't make sense," I mutter to myself.
Ivan hums absentmindedly, clearly distracted.
"No, really," I continue, voice a bit sharper. "His pitch deck, investors, logistics… it's flawless, but not this flawless. It's like he's got a cheat code. How does someone go from absolute ruin to national success in a year?"
Ivan just shrugs, grin widening. "Maybe the devil felt bad for him."
I lean back, sighing. "I'm starting to believe he signed a deal with something."
Regardless of what miracle he's performing, my husband doesn't want him to succeed. And that's all the reason I need. I'll make sure Dorian's empire crumbles—even if I have to play the devil he bargained with.
"I've done it!" Ivan suddenly exclaims, breaking my thoughts as he wiggles on my lap in excitement.
That movement—oh no.
My hands tighten on his waist instinctively, a hum escaping me.
He doesn't notice. "Tomorrow, Dorian's going to wake up to a very unpleasant surprise," he says, proud and smug, bouncing a little as he speaks.
"Hm." It's all I can manage, shamelessly enjoying the way his body moves against mine.
He turns his head, narrowing his eyes at me. "Why are you responding like that?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, voice too calm, too casual.
"You can't be serious." He stares at me, jaw dropping slightly.
"We literally went two rounds this morning."
"That was five hours ago," I say smoothly. "And it's your fault for coming to my office dressed like that."
Ivan throws his hands up. "Zander, it's linen shorts! You're incorrigible."
"Comfortable and dangerous," I correct.
He groans dramatically, getting off my lap and glaring at me.
"Is it even healthy to overwork your dick like this?"
"Overwork is a bit far-fetched," I say with a straight face, though my eyes are already trailing down as he—despite his protests—slides the shorts off, exposing the smooth line of his thighs.
He leans back against my desk, pretending he's doing it to make a point, but the pink rising in his cheeks betrays him.
"You're unbelievable," he mutters.
"Unbelievably lucky," I counter, unbuckling my belt, the metallic sound echoing faintly through the room.
Ivan's breath catches. He's trying so hard to glare at me, but his pulse gives him away.
For all his complaints, my husband's libido is just as high as mine.
***
Maksim
As a wedding gift, my bosses really went above and beyond with this all-expenses-paid luxury getaway to three countries.
Today marks the final day of our honeymoon—the end of what can only be described as a month-long sex marathon.
I narrow my eyes at my wife.
Yes. Wife.
On the day of our flight, we went to court, signed the papers, took a couple of pictures, and got on a plane. Efficient. Brutal. Very Margaret.
I thought she had a normal libido—back home, twice a week, she'd crawl into my lbed or bath and that was that. Manageable. Predictable.
I was wrong.
I was very, very wrong.
At this point, I'm not sure I can even get hard anymore, and if I do, I'm convinced there's nothing left inside me but water. Thirty-one days. Every single day. Multiple times a day.
My entire body feels raw. Even putting on underwear hurts, because apparently my skin has developed trauma. So now I've resorted to nude sunbathing.
Privacy isn't a concern here; the resort is Vale-level when it comes to security and discretion. Which is good—because honestly, this might be the first time my dick has ever felt sunlight.
I yawn and stretch my legs. Well—leg. Singular. Having one leg forces you to get creative in bed, and contrary to what I thought, it's not a disadvantage. If anything, it forces better rhythm, more precision. A strange sort of balance between control and surrender.
Honestly compared I my sex life before was pretty vanilla compared to what Margaret and I get up to.
I chuckle to myself.
Still, I'm looking forward to going home. I actually miss that little monkey.
Home...home.
Would you look at that.
I don't get the chance to unpack that thought, because Margaret's walking toward me, all sun and danger. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, and you'd never believe this is the same woman who stares down CEOs for breakfast.
Her skin glistens with a faint sheen of water. She must've just gone for a swim. And her bikini—if you can even call it that—is all strings and ambition. Each bounce of her chest is a calculated act of warfare.
Against all odds, my dick stirs, and I almost shed a tear of gratitude. It's not broken.
"Husband," she says, hands on hips, casting her shadow over me. "Think you can handle one more?"
"Was that a question?" I raise an eyebrow.
Her lips curve. "No."
She leans to the side of my chair, pulls the lever, and lets it fall flat.
"Make me wet," she commands, climbing over me and settling on my face like it's her throne.
I grin up at her. "Yes, ma'am."
Not a bad life, not a bad life at all.