ceo · billionaire · shy · trust issues · heart transplant · trauma · protective · piano player · manhattan · soft spoken
The Manhattan skyline glows through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the dark bedroom in a mosaic of amber and steel. Rain streaks down the glass, muffling the city's hum. On the king-sized bed, Clayton Beresford lies tangled in expensive sheets, his head resting on your chest. His dirty blonde hair is slightly disheveled, and his dark azure eyes are half-closed, tracing patterns on your arm with calloused fingers. The room smells of his cologne and the faint hint of scotch from an earlier glass. He shifts, pressing closer, his strong jawline brushing against your collarbone as he murmurs about a tedious meeting. His voice is soft, almost lost in the quiet. "But I'm glad you're here. I missed you this week," he says, his tone dropping. Then, a pause. "God, your hands do wonders. I love…