Page 69 of The Bright Omega

Piers gives me one of those quiet, intense looks, the corner of his mouth curving up slightly.

“You said the house was boring,” he says simply. “I didn’t like when you said that. The house should feel like it’s yours. I wanted to put something here that you like to look at.”

My throat feels tight. The painting is stunning, vibrant, full of life. It’s everything this house has been missing. And he did this because I made one offhand comment.

I don’t know what to say, so I step closer and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his chest. His deep amber and sea salt scent wraps around me as his arms come around my back.

“Thank you,” I whisper against his shirt. “It’s perfect.”

Piers’ hand strokes slowly up and down my spine. “Good,” he murmurs with satisfaction. “I’m glad you like it, sunshine.”

I trace the edge of the frame with my fingertip, still a little awed. “What made you pick this one? I know Vivian Darcy isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”

Piers steps closer behind me, his chest brushing my back. “It took a few weeks to find the right one. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was the one,” he says. “It’s a bright blast of colors and light. Like you.”

My pulse races. I turn in his arms and smile up at him. “You know… I never properly thanked you for all the clothes either.”

His dark eyes spark with heat. “That was only the start, sunshine. I can’t wait until this whole stalker situation is over so I can take you shopping properly. Spoil you the way you deserve.”

I bite my lip, letting my hands slide up his chest. “If you want me to model clothes for you, I can do that right now. There’s at least a hundred outfits in that closet I haven’t even tried on yet.”

The low growl that rumbles out of him is pure alpha. His hands settle on my hips, pulling me flush against him as he walks me backward toward the couch in the center of the room.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, voice dropping into that dangerous register that makes my knees weak. “Then I think we should start the private show immediately.”

We don’t make it far. His mouth finds mine in a deep, hungry kiss while his hands roam, sliding under the hem of my shirt, palming my ass, pulling me tighter against the growing hardness in his slacks. I moan into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair as we gracelessly land on the couch together.

Piers settles over me, careful but eager, kissing down my neck while his hands push my shirt higher. “I've been thinking about this since the hospital," he says against my skin.

I arch into him, already breathless. “Then touch me, sir.”

His purr is instant and devastating. His hands slide under my shirt, pulling it up and off in one smooth motion. I reach for his buttons, eager to feel skin against skin, and push his shirt open. My fingers trail down his chest, and then they stop cold.

There it is.

LIV.

Inked low on his ribs in clean, elegant script. The tattoo practically screams at me.

I trace it with my fingertip, heart suddenly pounding for a completely different reason. “Who is she?”

Piers sits back a little, confusion flickering across his face. “Who’s who?”

I poke the tattoo, harder than necessary. “Liv. Olivia, I assume. Who is she?”

He actually smiles. That small, knowing curve of his mouth that usually turns me on but right now only pisses me off. I go to push him off and stand, but his arms lock around me, holding me firmly in place on his lap.

“Cammie,” he says, unruffled. “You’ve misunderstood. Listen, sunshine.”

I squirm against his hold, irritation and that ugly twist of jealousy making me fight. He doesn’t let go. He holds me closer, one hand stroking soothingly up and down my back until I stop struggling. When I finally still, he presses a kiss to my temple and speaks softly against my hair.

“It’s not ‘Liv.’ It’s L-I-V. Roman numeral. It means fifty-four.”

I blink, still tense in his lap. “Fifty-four what?”

Piers’ hand strokes slowly up and down my back. “Fifty-four acres in Nantucket. The first land my ancestors bought when they came to America. It’s where they started building the family fortune. But more importantly, it’s where my grandfather used to take me as a child.”

His voice softens with memory. His scent shifts too, the amber going deeper. “My parents were emotionally absent. Usually physically absent too. But my grandfather was always there. Every summer when I came home from boarding school, he’d take me to Nantucket. We’d walk the land for hours. Fish. Sit on the cliffs and watch the ocean. It was the only place that ever felt like home.”