Hollywood Heir (Westerly Billionaire #4)(30)

He pulled over along the side of a back road. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. I also believe money is an addiction, at least at a certain level. At first, all a person wants is enough to pay their bills. Then to buy a few nice things. They might take care of the people around them. But something happens when they reach a certain level of wealth. It starts to take over their lives. They become obsessed with making more or keeping what they have. No matter how much they have, it’s no longer enough. I feel bad whenever I hear that someone has won the lottery, because I know their life is about to change, and I pray they won’t lose themselves and everyone they love because of it.”

He turned the engine off, unbuckled his seat belt, and turned to face her. “That’s not a popular modern view. Isn’t more always better? Life is competitive, and no one wants to come in second.” He wasn’t actually debating the point with her. He seemed to be searching for an alternative to what his experience had been.

“Who says that’s the way it has to be? Rules only apply when you’re playing the same game. I rejected that life. I don’t have an impressive bank account, and my parents think I’ve wasted my potential, but I like my life. There are parts I’m still working on, but I’m not in competition with anyone. I’m living the way I want to. Is skipping to the front of the line worth giving that up? I don’t think so.”

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” He leaned forward, cupped her chin with one hand, and kissed her.

She undid her seat belt so she could move closer. Their kiss deepened, and she gave herself over to the desire rushing through her. His seat jolted backward, allowing room for her to straddle him. His hands went to her hips, his thumbs caressing the bare skin beneath her shirt. She arched against him and ground herself intimately against his bulging cock.

It felt good, so damn good.

Her hands went to his face. He froze and took both of her hands in his. “Don’t,” he ordered huskily. “Don’t ever touch my face.”

She would have promised not to, but as he began to kiss her neck, it felt too good. Slowly, he worked his way from below her ear down to the collar of her shirt and back. She writhed against him.

He raised his head and met her gaze. Their ragged breath mingled. “We need to take this slow.”

She chuckled, still breathless. “Isn’t that my line?” Her eyes fell to his scar. Up close it almost looked—

He released her hands, shifted her off him, and angled his face so his scar was hidden. “This wasn’t why I asked you out today.” He started the car again.

No? Damn. Sage settled herself back into her seat. He pulled back out onto the road as she tried to collect her scattered thoughts. Of course slow was better. That he didn’t want to rush her was actually refreshingly respectful. Or was his withdrawal for another reason? “It’s not repulsive. Your scar. I actually like it. It gives you character.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think you should. Maybe then you’d see—”

His hands tightened visibly on the steering wheel. “This isn’t going to work, is it? What the fuck was I thinking? I thought if we didn’t—if we could simply spend time together and not take it further—that it wouldn’t be an issue.”

“It’s not an issue for me.” Sage clasped her hands on her lap.

He grimaced, and her heart broke for him.

She touched his arm again, but this time he didn’t reach for her hand. “But it is for you, and I can respect that.”

He groaned. “Why do you want to be with me?”

She squeezed his arm. “Why wouldn’t I? Because you’re not perfect? News flash—no one is.”

His eyes flashed with a defensive anger she was beginning to recognize. “Am I just like the man in the park? Is that why you’re with me?”

“You’re right. How did I not see it? This is exactly the same. Do you remember how I climbed right on his lap to comfort him?” She let go of his arm. “No? Yeah, because I didn’t. I’m not with you because I feel sorry for you, but if you can’t see that, maybe you should turn the car around and take me home.”

He didn’t.

They drove without speaking for a mile or so. Then he added, “Do you want to go back?”

She relaxed. “No. I’d like to see Stonehenge, and I was looking forward to a dinner in Bath.”

He glanced at her, then back at the road. “I don’t know why I say some of the shit I do.”

“Everyone reacts differently to being afraid.”

“I’m not—” He stopped. His hands clenched again on the steering wheel. “I don’t want to fuck this up.”

His pain was palpable.

She said, “So, let’s go slow—just like you said.”

They talked about what they both were excited to see at Stonehenge, then about nothing in general for several minutes. The tension from earlier fell away.

A small smile lit his face. “Don’t hate me, but all I can think about is how much I want you.”

Sage ran her hand from his knee up to, but just shy of, the bulge in the front of his jeans. It was a brief, teasing touch. Then she sat back and said, “That’s just awful.”

A flush spread up his neck and across his cheeks. “Slow might kill me,” he said in a strangled voice.