Page 33 of The Billionaire's Proposal

Chapter Seventeen

CAMERON

“Come in,” Winslow invites me in.

Gray sweatpants and shirtless. Hell yeah. I’ve had a long day, and Winslow’s appearance takes my mind off it. My hands sweep over the ridges of his abs and up to his chest. “I had a little boy scream the entire four hours. He fell and hit his head, cutting his eyebrow on his parents’ mini-Yeti.”

“I’m sorry.” He puckers and presses his lips to mine in a very boyfriend type gesture. “I was getting ready to work out for thirty minutes. My house is yours. Or you can work out with me, and then we can shower.” He wiggles his eyebrows in quick succession.

I set my overnight bag on the couch. “Sounds good. How did your last date go?”

“God, I hate calling them dates. Margie is old, and the hacker is a baby.”

“How old?”

“Twenty-two. But I hired her.” He explains everything that happened to her. “She’s going to be extremely valuable to our company.”

Our? I think he means his unless he’s talking about his family.

The treadmill faces the same direction as the living room windows only one story above. It’s a view I could get used to. Plus, I can see Winslow’s reflection in the glass. Watching him work out is my new favorite activity. The way his chest and abs tighten as he does sit ups. The way his veins pop when he does bicep curls.

And did I mention he’s shirtless? Yes, I did.

The shower proves to be even more exciting. We wash each other slow and seductive. He lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist as he nudges against my center before playing me like a cello—long strokes in and out, building my orgasm and leaving me begging him. “Please.”

“You’ll come when I want you to come.”

“Oh Lord, please.” I slip my hand between us in an attempt to get the friction I need, but he kisses my hand and throws it back around his neck.

He finally lets me sink all the way down, and I moan. “I love…”

We both stall. Our bodies go rigid for a second. He kisses my words away. The rest of the time is slow and sensual like we’re making love.

Do I love him? Was I going to say I love you?

Or I love this. And does he feel the same way?

He has Enzo’s delivered and opens a bottle of wine. We take the elevator to the third floor of his penthouse to the terrace. It’s a little cooler up here, the light breeze chasing the humidity away. Conversation flows, and there’s no mention of me almost saying something I’m not sure I meant. I might, but it’s hard to believe I’m anything more than a rebound to Phoebe.

Winslow sits quietly, then finishes his first glass of wine rather fast, and I cock a brow. “Anything wrong?”

“Let’s go sit on the couch.”

It’s gotten chilly as nighttime falls; the pinks and purples fade into the horizon. We move over to the heavy teak furniture with fluffy cushions. He grabs a blanket from the braided tote before he brings my legs over his, caressing my calf with his thumb. There’s a hesitancy to his touch that scares me.

“What is it?”

“I need to tell you something.”

My heart races at those words. He’s going to tell me he loves me.

“I don’t know how to say this.”

Fuck, is he breaking it off with me?

He inhales deep and, on a shaky breath, says, “It’s my fault Phoebe died.”

My heart keeps pounding for a different reason.

---