The Billionaire I Kept

The bedframe slammed rhythmically against the wall, each thrust punctuated by the harsh creak of expensive wood protesting under the force of their coupling.

"Henry—" Sophia Brown's cry broke off into a strangled moan as he drove deeper, her fingers clawing desperately at his shoulders for purchase. Her legs were locked around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back as he pistoned into her with relentless intensity.

"That's it," Henry Windsor growled against her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Say my name again." His hand fisted in her auburn hair, tugging her head back to expose more of her neck to his mouth. The other gripped her hip hard enough to leave bruises—marks that would remind her of this for days.

Sophia couldn't form words anymore. Her body arched off the mattress, back bowed as another wave of pleasure crashed through her. She was so slick, so ready for him that each stroke made obscene wet sounds that filled the hotel room along with their ragged breathing.

Henry shifted angles, hooking her leg over his shoulder, and the new position made her scream. "Fuck, you feel incredible," he rasped, his usually composed voice rough with desire. "So tight, so perfect—" His words dissolved into a groan as her inner walls clenched around him.

"Please—" Sophia gasped, not even sure what she was begging for anymore. Her nails raked down his back, leaving angry red trails. "Henry, I can't—I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he commanded, his thumb finding her clit and circling with practiced precision. "Let me feel you."

She shattered with a cry that was half-sob, her entire body convulsing as the orgasm tore through her. Henry followed moments later, his rhythm faltering as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside her with a guttural moan of her name.

They collapsed together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, both fighting to catch their breath. The room reeked of sex—musky and primal.

"Exhausted already?" Henry Windsor's husky voice lingered against her ear, still warm with the afterglow of sex.

Sophia Brown forced her eyes open, her auburn hair spread like rumpled silk across the satin pillowcase, several damp strands clinging to her sweat-slicked neck. As Henry's hand slid firmly down her naked waist, she arched her neck instinctively, revealing the elegant curve of her jawline, a soft moan escaping her throat.

"Let's take a break," she said, her voice equally hoarse. Her fingertips pressed lightly against Henry's chest where her nails had left red marks during their passionate encounter. "If we keep going like this, I won't be able to walk tomorrow."

Henry laughed softly, twirling a strand of her hair between his fingers, his gaze fixed on her flushed earlobe. "Weren't you the one breathlessly begging 'don't stop' just minutes ago? Now you're the first to surrender."

Sophia glared at him, though her cheeks burned with embarrassment. After two years of sleeping with Henry, she should have grown accustomed to his sexual stamina, yet he still left her completely exhausted after each encounter.

Henry looked down at her, the overhead light casting dramatic shadows across his already sculpted face, making him look like a masterpiece crafted by a passionate artist. Just as she was about to retort, her phone rang sharply on the nightstand, the screen illuminating with "Husband." The moment shattered like ice water had been thrown over their naked bodies.

Henry's fingers paused, the smile vanishing from his eyes as his voice deepened: "Is this why you told me tonight you wanted to end things?"

"Not end things—terminate our arrangement," Sophia corrected, sitting up and reaching for the phone, but Henry gently caught her wrist.

He didn't grip tightly, but the touch made it impossible to ignore the complex emotions swirling in his eyes—more complicated than she'd ever seen before.

Before she could pull away, Henry had already accepted the call. Oliver Miller's impatient voice immediately filled the room: "Sophia, where the hell are you? Grandfather is still waiting. Are you deliberately stalling?"

A gentler female voice soon followed in the background—Clara Garcia: "Oliver, don't be so harsh. Sophia might be stuck in traffic." After a pause, she continued sweetly, "Sophia, Oliver's grandfather wants to talk with you. If you can, please come home soon—we've been waiting for you all evening."

Her tone was soft as cotton but concealed a sharp needle. The final statement was a clear reminder that she and Oliver were currently in what used to be Sophia and Oliver's marital home.

Two years had passed, but Clara's tactics remained pathetically transparent. On Sophia and Oliver's wedding day, Clara had manipulated Oliver into taking her abroad instead. They'd been gone for two years, selfishly enjoying themselves while completely disregarding that Oliver's grandfather, Gavin Miller, had been hospitalized from the shock, making the Miller family a laughingstock in high society.

For Sophia, this marriage was nothing but a joke. If it weren't for Gavin, she would never want any connection with Oliver.

Sophia's fingers turned cold, though her voice remained steady: "Oliver, two years ago I waited for you at our wedding venue until midnight, only to receive news that you'd left the country with Clara. You weren't concerned about my waiting then, were you?"

"Sophia!" Oliver's voice exploded, "I don't have time for your grudges! Come home immediately—Grandfather's health can't withstand the wait!"

Sophia frowned deeply, her attention entirely focused on Gavin's condition. She didn't notice that Henry had released her wrist, his fingertips now lightly tracing her bare back in a comforting gesture.

Gavin's health had been deteriorating recently. She couldn't let the elderly man suffer more stress—even if it meant facing Oliver and Clara, she had to go.

"Fine, I'll be there soon," she conceded.

As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt the heat of Henry's breath on her neck—he had leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he whispered: "Tell him you're not coming."

Sophia froze, turning sharply to warn him with her eyes.

But it was too late.

Oliver's voice instantly rose through the speaker: "Whose voice was that? Sophia! Is there a man with you?"

"You're hearing things," Sophia quickly ended the call, switched her phone to silent, and tossed it aside, anxiety tightening her chest.

She wasn't afraid of Oliver discovering Henry's existence—Oliver had no right to dictate her life anymore. But she couldn't disregard Gavin. When the Brown family had discarded her like a dispensable pawn, it was Gavin who had provided her with familial warmth. If Gavin's health hadn't been deteriorating so rapidly, he wouldn't have urgently summoned Oliver back.

She turned to face Henry, who was leaning against the headboard, the sheet fallen to his waist, revealing his well-defined abs. His eyes no longer held their playful gleam, replaced instead by an intense gaze.

Sophia took a deep breath, straddling his thighs. Her finger traced his Adam's apple as she spoke with gentle reproach: "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

Henry's eyes darkened. "Do you really need to ask if it was intentional?"

She remained silent for a moment before saying quietly: "You've crossed a line. We—"

Henry didn't let her finish. He captured her lips with his, seemingly determined to prevent her from saying anything definitive about ending their relationship.

Sophia sighed inwardly.

One last time, she thought.

Meanwhile, Oliver stared at the disconnected phone, his face livid with anger.

Clara sat beside him, offering a glass of water while saying softly: "Oliver, don't overthink it. Maybe it was just a waiter or driver's voice? It's late, and Sophia is a woman alone out there—it can't be easy for her."

"Not easy?" Oliver slammed the glass onto the table, water splashing everywhere. "If things were truly difficult for her, she wouldn't still be out at this hour! I heard that voice clearly—it was a man!" He stood up and paced back and forth, his fury building. "If she's cheating on me, I will never forgive her!"

He seemed to have forgotten that he was the one who had betrayed their marriage first, and that their relationship had ended two years ago.

Back in the hotel room, the heat of intimacy still lingered in the air.

Sophia rested against Henry's chest, her fingers tracing patterns on his skin. "I need to go," she said tiredly. "Gavin is waiting."

Henry didn't try to stop her. He silently rose, lifting her into his arms with gentle insistence and carried her to the bathroom.

This routine had been repeated countless times over the past two years—practiced to the point of ritual.

After helping Sophia shower, Henry wrapped her in a towel and carried her back to bed before cleaning himself. But when he returned, he found Sophia holding out a bank card to him.

"This is where our arrangement ends," she said. "This card is your compensation."