Beauty and the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #2)(37)

Gretchen’s tongue slicked out and licked the tight seam of his mouth.

Ah, f*ck. Fuck, f*ck, f*ck. That was the most amazing thing he’d ever felt. The tip of her tongue might as well have been licking his cock, for it shot a jolt straight there. Hunter groaned, unable to help himself.

She touched the seam of his mouth again with her tongue, and he parted his lips, fascinated by the aggressive lead she’d taken. Immediately, Gretchen’s tongue swept into his mouth, stroking against his in a coaxing move that made him harden with need.

“Gretchen,” he breathed against her lips. His c*ck ached so badly for her that he couldn’t think straight, was losing track of what he’d arrived here to do. “I—we need to talk.”

Her warm, delicious figure suddenly pulled away. “Talk? That sounds bad.” She tilted her head up at him and gave him a teasing look. “Are you coming here to break up with me?”

“No.” He wanted to crawl between her legs and settle there again. He wanted to touch her all over. Caress her. Kiss her more. Kiss her for hours. “I just . . . there are things that need to be said between us.”

“That sounds very serious. Why don’t you come to bed and tell me? It’s cold out here.” She gave a small shiver, and he noticed her n**ples were hard, poking against the thin fabric of her sleep shirt.

The sight made him nearly spend right there. Hunter scrubbed a hand down his face as Gretchen took his hand and led him to the bed. She crawled under the covers and then held them open for him, inviting him in.

The most beautiful, desirable woman he’d ever seen was inviting him to her bed. Damn, he was a lucky son of a bitch.

Hunter hesitated but then slid into bed next to her, feeling stiff and uncomfortable and awkward. He didn’t belong here. Any moment she’d tug his robe open, see that the scars covering one half of his face also went down his side, and be repulsed. She’d pull away and then he’d be left wallowing in his own humiliated fury.

To his surprise, Gretchen reached over and turned off the lamp, setting the room in darkness. “Better?” she asked softly. “You seem uneasy.”

He was. He was tense as hell and kept waiting for her to come to her senses and realize he wasn’t handsome. “The lights off is better for you,” he bit out. “Less to see.”

Her warm chuckle in the dark made his c*ck jump, and he nearly groaned aloud when her hair brushed against his shoulder. Gretchen’s fingers touched his chest, lightly trailing along his chest hair. “I like the way you look.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said harshly, a stab of anger flaring through him. He kept his fists clenched at his side, though he wanted nothing more than to touch her. “I know what I look like.”

“I do, too,” she said easily, and those teasing fingers trailed down his stomach, lightly swirling at his belly button. “You have dark hair and a strong nose, and scars on one side of your face. You’re taller than me, have big arms, and you turn your cheek aside when possible, like you’re trying to shield the world from your face.”

The breath left him. Stunned, he said nothing for a long moment, waiting. Waiting for her to say something. When she remained quiet, he struggled for something to say, to make her feel the depth of his struggle. “People flinch when they look at me. They turn away when they see my face.”

“People are a**holes,” she said, and he felt her shoulders lift as if she were giving a tiny shrug. “You’re a gorgeous, intelligent man . . . with a few scars.”

Her finger dipped into his belly button, distracting him from the angry protest about to spill forth. She wasn’t listening to him. She didn’t understand what it was like to be the one who everyone looked away from. To turn people’s stomach with a look of your face.

To be so utterly alone in the world.

Of course, he was having a hard time thinking about being alone while she played with his navel, her fragrant hair brushing against his cheek.

“Won’t you touch me?” she whispered back to him. “You seem so stiff and angry.”

He ached with his need to touch her. Ached. But something held him back. Fear of . . . what? Rejection? Seeing that look of loathing on her face that he’d seen so many times?

“I don’t know how to do this, Gretchen.”

“Hmm?” The teasing lilt was back in her voice. “Don’t know how to touch me?”

“No,” he said harshly, hating the word even as he spit it out. “I’ve never . . . I don’t . . .”

“That’s all right, Hunter.”

“It’s not,” he said roughly, reaching out and daring to touch a lock of her hair that was tickling his chest. It was soft and silky, and his mind immediately filled with images of her hair sliding all over him, her nak*d body following. His c*ck reared, and he bit his lip to keep from spilling with need. “It’s . . . not . . . okay.”

“I know you’re a virgin, Hunter. I guessed as much. You were so young when you were hurt, I just assumed . . .”

An ironic twist flexed his mouth. Of course she knew. He was f**king obvious as hell. “I just wanted you to know that it’s not you. It’s me. It’s all me, and if I push you away it’s because I don’t know how to pull you close. I’m not . . . I’m not good with people.”