Free The Billionaire’s Lust (His Submissive, Part Seven) by Ava Claire

over a month, I felt like I’d just run a marathon. I was spent, physically and emotionally. But I loved it—it was like we’d climbed our Everest, a mountain of all of these trials and tribulations—and now we could finally move forward.
    You’re my forever, Leila.
    I got goose bumps and couldn’t stop smiling as I flipped the pancakes. My smile broadened when I saw they were a perfect golden brown. I knew that whatever happened, whatever was next, I could face it with Jacob.
    “You’re cooking breakfast?” His voice filtered from upstairs, still thick with sleep.
    I pointed at him with the spatula. “The best breakfast ever, in fact.”
    “Is that right?” he smirked, walking down the stairs. He came over, his eyes taking in the line of orange wedges, strawberries, and grapes.
    “Mmhm. So I hope you’re hungry.” I turned back to the skillet and slid the two pancakes onto porcelain plates.
    “It looks great, babe.” He went to work, helping me setup by putting the fruit into two square bowls. He swiped a strawberry and turned back to me, blocking me in. “I think I might need to sample something though. Make sure the fruit is of the utmost quality.” His eyes glittered. “Shirt off.”
    I made a face. “What?”
    “Shirt. Off.”
    God when his voice deepened like that ...
    Heat flared in my belly, in my cheeks, and I obeyed, pulling the t-shirt up and over, letting it drop to the floor.
    Wh en he took the tip of the strawberry and trailed it down the valley between my breasts before taking a bite, I had a feeling sex was on the menu.
    Lucky me , because I was starved.
    He took another swipe then offered it to me. My eyes gobbled him up as I sunk my teeth into the tender flesh of the truth. As soon as I swallowed, the fruit was forgotten as our lips locked and he pulled me to his chest. He tasted sweet, ripe with lust. I’d never get enough of the way he tasted. I’d never get enough of Jacob Whitmore.
    The elevator dinged and I froze, his lip between my teeth. I released him and snatched up my t-shirt, bringing it to my chest. “Were you expecting someone?”
    He shook his head. “At this hour? Absolutely not.”
    He moved past me and I took the opportunity to pull my shirt over my head and tried to make myself respectable. It had to be someone on his cleared visitors list or else the front desk would have called up for permission before letting them up in the private elevator.
    I heard Jacob’s voice, hushed and dark with anger and I skated across the fl oor, expecting to see a photographer, but I stopped when I saw a woman in the foyer. She looked to sleek to be a paparazzo, dressed in a crisp white suit and stilettos. The tailored fit of her jacket and pants and the bright, classic color gave her an air of chic sophistication. She had short, cropped salt and pepper hair and even though I could only make out her side profile, there was something about her jawline and demeanor. The way she held herself with confidence and authority reminded me of Jacob.
    When she faced me, I knew who she was immediately. She had more in common with Jacob than a presence—she had the same aristocratic nose and patrician features, devastatingly gorgeous like she’d just walked off the glossy pages of a magazine.
    It was J acob’s mom, Alicia Whitmore.
    She moved forward with fluidity, extending her hand. “You must be Leila.” She held her head high, showcasing her long, lean neck and a glittering diamond necklace. “I’m Alicia Whitmore, Jacob’s mother.”
    I shook her hand gingerly, eyes darting over to Jacob. He looked just surprised as I was. “H-Hi.”
    Her cool gray eyes studied me for a moment before her ruby red lips spread into a grin. “I was just telling Jacob that I was in town for a charity luncheon and w anted to swing by and say hello--”
    “And I was telling my mother that she shoul d have called first,” Jacob cut in brusquely.
    My eyes darted to him in bewilderment . I knew he had a