Page 47 of The Billionaire's Demand

He did so, turning the temperature as low as was necessary—which was very low. He endured it as much as he could—it was a cure, but a punishing one. He stepped out of the cubicle, seized a towel, wrapping it around his hips, grateful for its warmth. He grabbed another one, patting his chest and shoulders dry, then reached for his toothbrush.

As he brushed his teeth he felt the same heaviness fill him that had assailed him on the balcony, when she’d told him what he knew with bitter truth he had wanted her not to say.

I wanted her to say she regretted marrying as she did...regretted rejecting me as she did. That she would never do so given a second chance. I wanted her to tell me that if she got that second chance she would choose me this time...

But she had said none of that.

He frowned at his own reflection. His jawline was darkening, his hair damp from the shower. His gaze at himself was interrogating.

But that was the past—and it is the present we have now.

His own words sounded again in his head. ‘Things change—they can change again.’

Could they?

And would I want them to?

And Eliana? Would she want them to? Last night she had come to him, just as he had told her he wanted her to, in passion and desire, answering his for her. Last night he had thought that enough—thought it all that he wanted of her. But now...?

His promise to her of ‘separate bedrooms’, of making no more demands of her, setting no expectations on her, had negated the very reason he had brought her here to Paris with him. Negated hers for being here.

It was a promise he would honour. But tonight, he knew, as he replaced his toothbrush, would be an ordeal.

For himself.

Heaviness still weighing him down, he cut the light above the sink, saw his bleak reflection vanish, and went back out into his bedroom.

Where Eliana was waiting for him in his bed.

She saw him stop short. Sudden doubt assailed her, then vanished. She lifted her hand to him. Her other hand was holding the quilt across her breasts. Her hair was loose on her bare shoulders.

She said his name. Her voice low and tender.

For a moment he did not move.

And then—

He was there, taking her hand, pressing it tight, coming down to sit beside her, his eyes pouring into hers. They were alight with urgency—and with doubt. Searching for her meaning.

‘Is this what you want? Eliana—tell me. It must be what you want—only what you want. Or—’

She did not let him finish. His low, husky voice had been fraught, questioning. She lifted her other hand, placed a finger across his mouth. The movement made the quilt slip, exposing one breast, but she did not mind. How could she? She was here for him—and for herself.

For us both.

Her eyelids dipped and she raised her mouth to his, the hand that had touched his now cupping his cheek. It was rough to the touch, but she did not mind that either, smiled at it as she kissed him.

Not urgently, or on fire, but sweetly, softly—tenderly.

She drew back, her hand in his, pressing him back. She held his gaze again.

‘This is our time, Leandros.’ Her voice was soft and low and very, very certain. ‘This time is ours...’

Again, for a moment he did not speak—not with his voice. But with his eyes... She felt her breath catch. Oh, with his eyes he said all that she wanted to hear.

‘Eliana...’ He breathed her name, and it seemed to her a blessing and a gift.

A redemption for all that she had done to him and the pain she had caused—to him, and to herself. She did not ask for forgiveness, only for this. For this coming together now, as they would have done so long ago.

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