Page 5 of Curvy Girl for the Billionaire

Do I scream desperate?

I pull the throw blanket tighter around my shoulders, seeking warmth against the chill thought. I’ve tried so hard to craft a veneer of confidence. I certainly hope I don’t look like a desperate little girl. Because I am a confident, successful woman.

I have to keep telling myself that.

No matter how absurd or reckless Alex’s proposal was, I have to admire it. That's the kind of confidence money breeds. And Alex Bennett reeks of it—the power, the potency.

But there's something else, too, an undercurrent I can't quite name. His eyes had held mine a beat too long, a stormy sea trying to pull me under. He wants this charade, sure. Yet, why do I get the feeling he's grasping at something more?

"Damn it," I mutter, dragging a hand through my dark hair. It's crazy. Men like him don't fall for women like me—they use them as arm candy, as a means to an end.

But even as I think it, I remember the possessive curl of his fingers around my wrist, branding me with unspoken claims.

A shiver goes through me, and I feel my panties get wet.

I scowl.

No! No, no, no, no, no! No, you don’t! I scream at my body. Don’t you dare go getting all hot over the sexy billionaire. This is just business. That’s it!

I'm in over my head. I've agreed to lie, to parade around on the arm of a man who probably doesn't do anything without an ulterior motive.

And I will not allow myself to fall for him.

Because it’s all a sham.

I have to remember that.

Alex

I can’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes I see her.

Her green eyes framed by thick lashes.

That dark hair cascading down her back.

Those curves.

Fucking hell, those curves.

My fingers twitch even now, yearning to feel her waist in between them.

I imagine cupping the globes of her breasts, that sweet fucking ass.

My cock is rock hard and leaking at the thought.

I know I fucked up. Offering her this fake relationship—it was a panic move.

I want her—fucking hell, I want her in every way a man can want a woman.

The intensity of this desire feels like a betrayal to my usual control, a break in the armor I've spent years fortifying.

What the hell did she do to me? Her professional demeanor, the way she carries herself, it's like she's untouchable.

And that just makes me want to touch her more.

I roll over in bed, punching my pillow in frustration. Every time I think of her agreeing so reluctantly, something twists inside me.

---