The Billionaire Next Door (Billionaire Bad Boys #2)(32)

She nodded hesitantly, like she was ashamed to admit it.

“But you don’t want to be,” he fished.

She shook her head in confirmation. Oh, damn. He wanted to rub his hands together at how excited he was to take on this challenge.

“Why are you nervous? Are you a virgin?”

“No.” Her eyes popped wide.

“Take it easy.” He lifted a hand. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Do I act like a virgin?” she asked, a cute little worry line bisecting her brow.

Kind of. He knew better than to share that thought.

“You act like you don’t like me,” he said instead.

“Oh.” She didn’t refute that, which he didn’t like. How did she continually knock him off balance?

“Do you?” he asked. “Like me?” Fantastic. Now he sounded and felt like an eighth grader. Maybe he should jot the question on the paper in front of him with Yes or No checkboxes.

If Lucas could see him now, he’d laugh himself into an early grave.

“Yes. I like you.” Her cheeks tinged pink, making him think the tame statement was a bold one for her. Then she got bolder. “I wished I would have kissed you back the other night, but you surprised me.”

He pulled a deep breath into his lungs. Now that was some good f*cking news.

“You mean it?” He had to know.

“I mean it. I’ve been kicking myself for screwing things up every minute since.”

Really.

“Then why didn’t you kiss me the second I opened my door?” His mouth twitched with the urge to smile, but he didn’t want her to think he was laughing at her. Far from it. She’d absolutely floored him.

“Because…you’re…” Her smile widened. “Too tall?”

“Too tall to kiss?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m blowing this, aren’t I?”

Not even a little.

“Come on.” He offered a palm.

She looked at it for a few seconds before slipping her smaller hand in his.

Trust. He liked that. He stood and tugged her until she was on her feet; then he led her into the living room. She followed. Slowly, but she followed.

He sat on the couch and she sat next to him. Sort of. There was a lot of space between them.

“Closer, Dimples. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.” He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze and she lifted off the cushion and scooted closer, until her hip was touching his.

“I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

“Prove it.” He let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Now’s your chance to make up for the kiss you didn’t return.”

“But I had garlic chicken tonight.” She put her fingers to her lips.

“We both had garlic chicken,” he said with a laugh. “Do you always worry about everything?”

“Pretty much.” She looked nervous again. Unsure.

The woman was a puzzle with a secret, which made her an unsafe pastime. And a fun one. If she’d let her guard down enough to have some fun with him.

“Been a long week.” He pushed her hair off her shoulder, brushing his fingers along the delicate line of her neck when he did.

Her eyes closed and a subtle shiver shook her.

“It’s only half done. Put me out of my misery,” he murmured. “Let me taste your mouth again.”

Blue eyes sought his, and again he waited to be turned down. Then she obliged, leaning in and touching her mouth to his. Tag gripped her shoulder, all of him going up in flames. Like the electricity snapping the air between them had made contact with a metal rod. He kept his other hand fisted at his side. He’d only tasted her once before and since had damn near gone out of his mind with need. This timid, adorably cute, confusing creature…

Her tongue tentatively swept his lip, leaving a warm, wet trail. He opened for her, allowing her to lead. She stroked his tongue with hers and he responded by kissing her back, all of him leaning closer. Her hand came up and touched his chest, but not to push him away, to feel him. She glided her fingers over his thin sweater, sending a trail of gooseflesh climbing his arms, then down, lower, lower, until she lifted the edge of the material and found the T-shirt he wore underneath. Tentative fingers raked worn cotton as a whimper came from their joined mouths—from her.

She finished off the kiss and his lips chased her, not quite ready to let her go. She put her fingers to her mouth. “Sorry.”

“Why?” His brain was shaken, his pulse through the roof, his pants uncomfortably tight. What the hell was she sorry about?

“I didn’t mean to”—a small puff of air that might be a laugh—“go right for your body again.”

Again. Like the night she explored his naked abs. The same night he’d showered and taken himself in hand, her touch on his mind while he stroked out his sexual frustration.

“You don’t need to go slow with me, sweetheart.” His voice was gravel-laden, his body aflame. “I’m matching your pace, not the other way around.”

“What’s your pace?” She lifted her sweet face, and in her expression he saw she wanted the truth. So he gave it to her.

“My pace? Honey, you’d be in my bed naked, screaming my name because you couldn’t take another second of pleasure.”