Mr Reluctant Billionaire || BWWM

Forty-six

Silence is our best friend as Brandon carries me up the stairs. He lowers me to the bed, I latch on to him, afraid to let go for fear of him leaving the room. Panic sinks its claws into my heart when he retracts my hands from his body, I gulp, he hasn’t said a word since my confession downstairs. I should have kept my mouth shut, kept kissing him.

“Brandon,” I say. His face is unreadable, my heart skips. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

He kneels between my legs, smiles. “Don’t be.”

My fingers reach for his beards, they are shinier like he took extra time with them today but he turns his face away and my hand drops to my legs. I try to remind myself it has nothing to do with me, that this is not revenge and he still finds me attractive. Pulling the cover to my chest, tears coat my lashes, I take in a deep breath and exhale slowly.

“I am sorry.” Brandon squeezes my knees, I clutch the bedcover, staring down at his hands which my fingers itch to caress but I can’t, he doesn’t want me to. If he’s not upset why can’t I touch him? My lips quiver, I don’t owe him an apology, yet I say, “I am sorry.”

A sigh escapes him, he cups my face. “Elna, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

But he doesn’t pull me close, even when my tongue runs over my lip, when I moan and stare unabashedly at his plump lip tucked between his teeth, he doesn’t kiss me. It hurts, his withdrawal, deliberate effort to keep his eyes on my face, to keep me at bay.

I don’t want that. I want to kiss him, to touch him everywhere. Brandon’s hand lowers when I lean forward to press my lips on his, I panic at the loss of contact. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he snaps.

Then I lost it, I start weeping. “Stop shouting at me,” I manage to say between my tears.

His voice is too close, I jerk back at the light touches on my knuckles. “I didn’t mean to.”

Trying to pry my hands away from my face, I push him and get into the bed with a heavy heart. “Whatever,” I say and sniff, wiping the useless tears quick to make an appearance, I am tired of crying. “I don’t like you again. You can go back to your Paris girlfriends.”

His chuckles elicit a long hiss from me, my comeback sounds childish to me but I am too heartbroken to care. Joining me on the bed in his boxers and singlet, I try to turn away from him but he is having none of that. In the end, he succeeds in pulling me up so my head can rest on his chest and a growl from him stops my wiggling. I gulp, clearing my throat to cover up the sound of my thumping heart which he doesn’t seem to notice. 

The silence stretches into something more uncomfortable, hangs over us like an apple dangling precariously from its tree. When I can’t take it any longer, I pinch his nipple, tug on the hairs of his chest. He winces but doesn’t stop me, I pull harder from the roots until his palm closes over my hand. And I giggle. Ironman does have the ability to feel.

“That day at the office,” Brandon starts. I freeze, I don’t want to remember that day, his pause, the words unsaid and questions unanswered. But he wants to. “I was going to say love is a process.” On this, I can agree with him. My head bobs, I start tracing circles on his solid abs, trailing the line between his firm chest to his belly button. “It takes time.”

“I think I am getting there with your help,” he continues. We share a look at this, I cough and he smiles. “I know I am not there yet and I need you to be more patient with me. But you got upset, wife.” There is no malice in his voice yet it stings and maybe that was his intention. “It’s unfair of you to punish me for not loving you the same way you love me.”