28

Maximilian
Iwake to Cadence draped over me, her long legs tangled with mine, hair splayed over my chest. She cuddled closer sometime in the night so that her breasts in only a T-shirt were pressed against my chest.
My morning wood tents the sheet.
Not sure what to do here.
I’ve never met anyone like Cadence. She’s strong and smart and knows what she wants in life, and has no qualms about going after it. I have no doubt that even without Novi Tate’s influence—or interference, depending on whom you ask—Cadence would have been a success on her own.
How many strippers become billionaires?
A billionaire. My father has money—almost as much as that—but it’s so much more impressive thinking of how Cadence rose in wealth and power. She may stay low-key, blocked from view by her association with Tate and his influence, but the woman could do a lot on her own.
That doesn’t matter to me. I’m thinking more along the lines of what I could do for her.
To her.
The leg that’s tangled with mine is long and dancer-lean, even after all this time. She might still dance for all I know.
She was amazing to see when she danced. Those legs, that ass dipping and pulsing. Breasts full and pert, grabbing every man’s attention.
I’m sure some of the women's too.
But Cadence had talent. I’ve been to my share of clubs where the women gyrate around a pole, giving lackluster performances, and Cadence was so much better than the norm. She was athletic and creative, and her toned abs could make me hard from twenty feet.
I glance down at where those abs are covered by the T-shirt.
Would I start at the toes, if I get the chance to start at all, or her shoulders, kissing my way down to those spectacular breasts?
I’d start at her feet, moving up, slow enough to make her wonder what’s next just before I did it. I’d take her foot in my hand, massaging it to relax her before moving to her ankles and those slim calves.
I’d run my tongue along the back of her knee.
Her thighs… I’d give a lot to have those thighs gripping me, but it’s what’s between them that has me thinking of Nick’s ninety-year-old grandmother to stop my morning wood from getting a little carried away.
Sort of defeats the purpose of wondering about Cadence’s sweet pussy when I’m thinking of Granny Klaussen at the same time. Still, helps tamp down the ache I’m getting in my balls.
Cadence’s ass is right here. I could cup it, sliding my hand between those legs and check to see—
Cadence stirs, nuzzling into my chest before jerking away with an expression of horror.
So much for my fantasy coming any way close to happening.
“What? How—?”
“I think you got cold in the night,” I tell her, making no move to hide my morning wood. I smirk when Cadence glances down at the tenting. “I never pegged you for liking to cuddle. Not that I’m complaining.”
“I don’t cuddle.” She flounces out of the bed and into the bedroom without another word.
“Good morning, Cadence,” I call after her.
Pulling on a pair of shorts, I leave the bedroom to give Cadence as much privacy as I can.
She didn’t sign up to share a bed.

I still can’t believe she’s here.
After visiting the powder room by the front door—peeing is never good with morning wood—I wander into the kitchen to find Nick and Dexter staring at me expectantly. “What?” I demand. “We’re in Turks; I’m not putting on a shirt.”
“Did you forget someone?”
“She’s in the shower. I think.”
“You let her in there alone?” Nick asks.
“Dude. No. I didn’t bring her for that. I mean, if it happens…” I trail off as I pour myself a coffee. Dexter never forgets to start the coffee in the morning. The condo has one of the fancy-assed espresso makers but I’m fine with the basics until I wake up.
“Did you check what we have for food?” We have people at each of the resorts who stock the fridge before each visit, with cold beer and wine and enough stuff to make a decent breakfast. “Who wants to make me eggs?”
“No one here,” Dexter grumbles. “Why can’t you eat cereal like the rest of us?”
“Nah, eggs are better for you,” Nick argues. “And you, Dexy, are the best cook of us all.”
“I’m not feeding you.”
“I brought you down here,” I protest.
“Marco brought me down here and it’s bad enough I have to stay with him.” Dexter points to Nick. “Sharing a room with—”
“Sorry about that,” I cut him off. “I must not have…”
“Max.” Nick cuts me off. “It’s all cool. You don’t have to put us up. And if your dad changes things at the last minute, we’ll deal with it.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Dexter says. “I didn’t mean anything.”
“Does this mean you’ll make me eggs?” I grin at him.
“Me too?” asks a quiet voice behind us.
“Well, good morning, Ms. Quiler,” Nick says in a hearty voice.