CATCHING THE BILLIONAIRE

Chapter 9

It was a no-mercy kiss.

A brutal claiming, full of teeth and desperate hunger, forcing my surrender to his will and his passion.

There was only his mouth on mine, his hands holding me, his body pinning me.

When he drew back, I felt taken and tender.

His eyes held mine, dazed and wild, gleaming with all the light from the horizon at my back. “Niel, I—”

“Oh no.” I just about managed to catch my breath enough to speak. “I’ve had bad experiences with you and sentences that begin with my name.”

“Yes, I—” He had the grace to look faintly uneasy. “I can understand that. I know I’ve treated you badly. It was never my intent.”

I wriggled my hands, enjoying the way his tightened. “Kiss me again and I’ll forgive you.”

“God,” he muttered. “I really need to stop doing this.”

But he kissed me anyway. Slowly this time, conquering me  inch by inch.

The kind I liked: thorough and deep and merciless.

He tasted of heat and coffee. I hadn’t liked nicotine, but if I had maybe it would have been like this. A smoky velvet kiss drawing me softly into danger and addiction.

He was breathing hard after. A little flushed. A lock of hair had fallen across his one eye. And if he hadn’t had me so deliciously trapped, I’d have pushed it back for him. “Niel—”

I gave him a look.

He closed his eyes briefly, a frown line crinkling at the top of his nose. Something else I would have loved to touch. “I have to tell you, I don’t do relationships.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” I hooked a leg across his hip. “Let’s just have sex.”

He let me go so abruptly I nearly toppled over. Saving myself only by slithering sideways over the glass like a smooshed insect. “I don’t do that either.”

My mouth fell open. “You don’t have sex?” The words bounced crazily off the walls and the polished floor.

But he only smiled his distant smile. “I don’t have casual sex.”

“Why not?”

“Because it sometimes leads me to forget myself.”

“Well, we don’t have to have casual sex.” I shrugged. “We can have…smart-casual sex. Or formal sex.”

“I thought you didn’t like formal.”

Oh God. His teasing undid me almost as thoroughly as his savagery. Or perhaps it was knowing he was capable of both.

He’d retreated to his desk. If you could call that curve of edgeless glass a desk. Bare, of course, except for an equally sleek laptop, a phone, and a lamp. And a frighteningly futuristic-looking ergonomic chair: this del Toro monster of steel and black leather.

“I would do formal for you,” I said.

He glanced away. “I would never want to make you do anything you didn’t want.”

“You never have.” I probably sounded pathetic, but since I’d just chased him to London, interrupted his meeting, and then burst into tears, it was a bit late in the day to be worrying about my dignity. “I don’t think you could. I think....if you wanted something, I’d want it too.”

 “We can’t do this.” He braced his hips against the desk, hands on either side. It was a nonchalant pose, except for the tight grip of his fingers.