Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(26)

My breath is quick and shallow—okay, I’m panting—but hopefully not that he can see or hear. Every molecule in my entire being is focused on the progress of his knuckle. Yearning for more.

I keep my face neutral when all I want is to turn into his hand. I don’t even know how I resist. All I want to do is give him everything.

Finally his finger of amazement reaches the tender skin below my ear; then and only then does he stop. He gazes at me even more deeply, as if that’s possible. Something in my belly melts.

I have no breath.

He leans in and presses his lips to my cheek.

One tiny brush of a kiss.

A seismic event in my belly.

Somewhere on the other side of the globe in some tiny island nation, Richter scales are going crazy. Animals are racing into the hills. Nobody understands what has happened. But it’s me, standing in this Manhattan office tower, cracking apart in shards of pure lust.

He pulls back, watching me.

“S-soooo, you really did like the sandwich,” I say.

His lips quirk in a half smile. It’s a smile that I haven’t seen for years, and it lights something deep in me. “Thank you.”

It comes to me that he’s thanking me for the sandwich.

It seems like madness, but yes, what else is he talking about? I put on a sarcastic expression. Like he’s such a freak. “Oh-kay, then.”

His lip twitches. “Chips would go great with this,” he says. “What do you have?”

I give him a look. Don’t you dare—that’s what my look says. You can’t make me show you the chips array. You can’t be an asshole after that.

He circles his finger.

Heat fills my face.

I go back to my cart, grab a bag of cheesy puffs, and toss them at him.

He catches them, eyes never leaving mine. “You’re not going to open the chips for me? What would Meow Squad say?”

“Call ’em and find out.”

He stares at me a bit. “Are you going to get my order right next time?”

“Unlikely.” I grab my cart and turn, pulse racing.





8




Show her you’re the one in charge by creating a system of rewards for good behavior and demerits for behavior you don’t like.

~The Max Hilton Playbook: Ten Golden Rules for Landing the Hottest Girl in the Room





* * *



Mia

I attend an acting seminar over the weekend and take off Monday to do some work as a film extra, which goes late into the evening. I don’t get home until after three in the morning, which I’m a little unhappy about. I wanted to be well rested for Tuesday. But even on five hours of sleep, I’m feeling strangely chipper, and looking forward to doing some more of Max’s system.

I don’t know how to feel about the way he touched me on Friday. All weekend I’ve been processing it, which is basically a euphemism for replaying it over and over in my mind as butterflies do loop-de-loops in my chest.

Today I’ll be doing rewards and demerits. He’ll hate it. I smile whenever I imagine how much he’ll hate it.

In his book, Max suggests giving the woman a Hershey’s Kiss whenever she does something you like. To get her to associate pleasure with being agreeable.

“What the hell!” Kelsey had exclaimed when I read that part aloud. “Like we’re Pavlov’s dogs?”

Tell her playfully that she has to earn her chocolate candy. She won’t like it and will probably find ways to resist, but hold your ground. Do what you need to do to stay in the alpha position—you are the judge of her, the one who gives rewards for good behavior. If you feel your control slipping, simply give another reward for something. Or a demerit.

“Oh, you have to go after him with everything,” Kelsey had said.

I just snorted. “Don’t you worry, sister.” And I won’t think about kissing his palm or putting my face to his chest, either! But I didn’t say that out loud.

We decided that following his system exactly would be too obvious. Like if I start giving him Hershey’s Kisses, it might jog his memory.

In order to position myself as approval giver, I’ve decided to go with a gold-star grading system like they have on Amazon.

Max is behind the desk when I get there, the king in his castle.

His white shirt fits him just so, his tie slightly loosened, brown hair perfectly tousled.

He gives me a smile, but it’s not his real one. It’s his Max Hilton smile, the smile of Maximillion magazine ads and billboards above Times Square. Enchanting Max who knows all the fun secrets. Max who wears a tuxedo to the many glamorous events you will never be invited to. Max having fun elsewhere without you.

It’s a beautiful smile that feels like a wall.

“Is it too much to ask that you’ve brought the sandwich I ordered?” he asks.

“I’ve brought the sandwich you want,” I say.

Blue eyes simmer behind lush lashes. “We’ll see.”

Fun electricity trills through me, much as I try to clamp it down. I proceed, conscious of him watching my every movement. The taking of his sandwich bag from my cart. The bringing of the sandwich to his desk. The extraction of the sandwich, the smoothing out of the bag.

I’ve done lunch layout for hundreds of conferences, but until Max, I’ve never been so aware of how much I’m invading somebody’s space when I do it. I’ve never felt so acutely the hum of another person’s nearness. The electric charge of another body up close.