Page 46 of Filthy Rich

Of course he’s right. Not that I plan to admit it.

“That’s what I thought,” he says with silky satisfaction before walking off.

I stare after him for a second, then follow him onto the waiting elevator. Of course I do.

We ride in silence up to his floor, neither of us bothering to look at the other. It all feels like a done deal. Until he punches the emergency stop button and turns to face me, all dark shadows and looming storms.

“Why don’t you want to spend the night with me, Tamsyn?” he says, his voice gruffer than I’ve ever heard it. “Tell me. No bullshit.”

I flounder for a second or two because it’s not like I fully understand what my sudden problem is. I’ve been eagerly anticipating this moment all day. But the thing is…

The thing is…

I helplessly shake my head as the issue coalesces for me.

He’s here now. Abruptly here. Powerfully and vividly here. In my thoughts and mind’s eye. With his handprints all over my body. He’s fully present in my life—and I never got any say about it. Not that I would have blocked him, mind you, and maybe that’s the real problem. He gets his way because I can’t tell him no. And I can’t wait to not tell him no again ten minutes from now, or whenever he wants me to do the next thing, whether it’s good for me or not. He’s got so much sway over me that it boggles my young mind. Why doesn’t that scare me more? Or maybe the real question is, why am I willing to live with the fear?

And speaking of fear… What would I do if he abruptly decided to withdraw from my life as quickly as he crash-landed into it?

“Tamsyn…?

“I’m trying not to like you too much,” I say. “I wish you’d let me.”

There’s a pause while he stares me down with those glittering eyes. “Fuck that, Ms. Scott,” he says, leaving me to nearly come on the spot.

With that, he faces front, punches the button again and we’re off. When the doors slide open, his long strides eat the distance to his cabin, where he lets himself in without waiting to see if I’m still behind him. But I am. Of course I am. I suppose I should be glad he at least leaves the door ajar for me. Then I slip inside and gasp as the door swings shut.

“Oh my God.”

It’s a scene out of a movie. Candles flicker all over the place. All kinds of domed silver platters sit on the white-clothed dining room table. There are flowers. A sultry breeze fluttering the sheer panels of the open balcony doors. More Spanish guitar piped in from invisible speakers.

My jaw drops and has a tough time coming back up. There’s no way he did all this. Not for me. Even if it was just a phone call, a snap of his fingers or whatever it is that rich people do to make big things happen on short notice. I’m not special enough for this. No way.

Stunned, I look around and discover him at the bar, where he’s making short work of pouring and downing a tumbler of scotch. It’s a wonder he can see me over the rim of his glass with those heavy brows sitting so low over his eyes. Then he sets his empty glass down with a decisive click and waits for me to say something. His expression doesn’t seem to change, but there’s something vaguely vulnerable and sardonic about him now.

I get the feeling he’s laughing at himself. And I get the feeling he really needed that drink.

The thought makes me feel better. Because he affects me like a ton of bricks to the head, yeah, but I affect him, too. “This is too much.”

“I’ll decide what’s too much.” He’s very still now, his voice very quiet. “The question is whether you like it or not.”

“Eh,” I say, my lips twitching as I try to hold back my delight. “Men do this for me every day of the week. I’m just glad you didn’t burn the ship down with all these candles.”

He makes a strangled sound that’s got a laugh in there somewhere along with a lot of relief. An arrested moment or two passes, one of those breathless pauses where anything could happen next. Then he shakes his head and reaches out for me. “Come here.”

I’m already on my way. We come together fast and hard with my arms winding around his neck and his around my waist. He lifts me straight up off my toes as I kiss him, and his lush mouth is so skilled with its sweeping tongue—so delicious—that I don’t know what to do with myself. I hold him tighter, kicking off my sandals and arching against him. One of his hands shifts to my ass in a possessive grip. His entire body feels vibrant against me, as though I’ve suddenly been granted the ability to register the electrical currents as they surge through him.

I want him so much. This can’t be right. Nothing this powerful should be allowed.

He tries to turn his head, but I won’t let him up for air. Finally, he has no choice but to pull my hair to get my attention. I break the kiss, infuriated by the interruption. “What?”

“Bed, wall or countertop?”

Like I care. “Countertop,” I say, because it’s closest.

He sets me down and turns me around, making sure my hands are firmly planted on the cool marble before he reaches under my skirt. My panties drop down my legs and hit the floor. Then there’s the jingle of his belt and the ripping sound of his zipper. I squirm against him as he reaches for his wallet and tosses it to the floor in a shower of credit cards.

A curse from Lucien. “Hang on, Tamsyn. Give me a chance here.”

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