The Last Eligible Billionaire(58)

Marshmallow leaps off Begonia’s lap, sits at attention, and pants happily at me.

“What—” she starts, but she cuts herself off when I drop to my knees in front of her chair, grip her chin, and hold her face close to mine.

“I appreciate you.”

“Um, thank you, Hayes. I appreciate you too.”

“No, Begonia. I appreciate you.” Fuck. I’m doing this wrong. “You don’t make me feel like the rich, powerful catch of the century.”

Her eyebrows do a weird little jig over her eyes, and fuck again.

I growl. “I’m not saying this right. I’m trying to say thank you, but thank you isn’t sufficient, because—fuck.”

Fuck the words. Fuck talking.

I need to kiss her.

I need to kiss her, and touch her, and taste her, and show her.

Our relationship?

Outside these doors, it’s pretend. It’s fake.

But when I’m with her?

When I’m with her, it feels so very, very real. And I want it to be real.

I want to trust this.

I want to trust her. I want to believe people like Begonia truly exist in the world, and that this isn’t a cruel hoax, that she won’t move on to shagging my neighbor or the next executive or artist or snake oil salesman who makes her feel wanted more than I do whenever she’s gotten what she wants out of this.

But even if my trust is misplaced, she’s still done enough for me that I want to give her something in return.

She doesn’t resist when I touch my lips to hers.

No, not Begonia.

She leans into me, welcoming my touch, my kiss, me.

I know she makes everyone feel this glow, this peace, this sense of happiness just by being near her—it’s not something she’s doing just for me—but god, it’s a high I can’t get enough of.

She fists my shirt in her hands and holds on as though she’s afraid I’ll stop. I don’t know if she wants me or if she’d take anyone, but I know I want to be the one to give her what she wants.

And I won’t ask myself if she’s thinking of someone else while she’s kissing me.

If she’d respond like this for anyone who kissed her when she wanted a kiss.

What the fuck was her ex-husband thinking, letting go of a woman who can kiss like this, who can make a man feel alive like this, who puts all of herself into everything she does?

Of all the women I could’ve found in my private sanctuary last week, thank god it was Begonia.

She breaks free of the kiss with a soft whimper, her gaze falling to her lap, hands still clenching my shirt. “Hayes, you don’t have to—”

“Do you want me?”

The towel has fallen off her hair and her robe is gaping open, giving me a glimpse of the curve of her full breasts, rising and falling with her rapid breath. “Of course I do,” she whispers.

“Do not tell me what you think I want to hear. Tell me what you want. Do. You. Want. Me?”

Those gorgeous eyes connect with mine, and it kills me that I can’t read people the way she can.

Does that nod mean yes, I want you, or does that nod mean yes, I want you because you’re convenient and I want people who want me?

Do I fucking care?

“This is not a revolving hotel that I keep for my family,” I murmur. “I had my staff insist Uncle Antonio come and stay here so you’d have to stay in my bedroom with me under the guise of appearances.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, though her lips tip up at the corners. “You want me.”

“I want you.”

“I like being wanted.”

“But what do you want, Begonia? What do you want?”

She studies me, her eyes flickering over my face as her fingers thread into my hair. “This,” she whispers.

And then she’s kissing me, slow and cautious turning into desperate and reckless, and I’m wearing too many damn clothes.

She nips at my lower lip. I untie her robe and let my hands explore the smooth skin around her ribs. She fists my hair and holds me tighter while she devours my mouth, her eager little tongue hot and slick and perfect, those whimpery moans in the back of her throat making me hard as steel.

It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed a woman I was this attracted to, and there’s a whisper in the back of my brain that I can’t shut off.

You don’t know her. Can you truly trust her?

I tell it to fuck off as her legs wrap around my middle, tugging me closer.

This wasn’t in the contract.

I growl and cup her breasts, finding the tight nubs of her nipples with my thumbs, and she breaks the kiss with a gasp. “Oh my god, that feels so—so good.”

“You like me touching your breasts?”

“So—sensitive.”

I bend and suck one sweet nipple into my mouth.

“Yes,” she moans. Her head drops back, and she tightens her legs around me while she holds me to her chest. “More, please.”

The dog tries to nose in, and I shove him away with my elbow. The scent of her arousal hits me and makes my mouth water.

If she’s faking—no.

Not Begonia.

And even if she is, I’ll make certain she’s not for long.

I lick the underside of her breast, and when she squirms and writhes with that panting, breathy yes yes yes, I repeat it for the other breast. I suckle and lick and tease, worshipping her breasts and telling all of my internal doubts to go to hell, her gasps and moans the soundtrack that I want playing on repeat every night for the rest of my life.