Page 75 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
“So,” I say slowly, trying to process it all. “We’re caught in the middle of some ancient Hatfield and McCoy feud, corporate edition?”
“Essentially,” Christopher confirms grimly. “And my father plays dirty. The investigators weren’t just tracking me. They were digging for dirt onyou. Anything he could use to discredit you, drive a wedge between us, or pressure you into backing away.”
Fury mixes with a strange sense of violation. Being watched. Analyzed. Assessed for weaknesses by Mark Fucking Blackwell. It’s disgusting.
But looking at Christopher, seeing the weary frustration in his eyes, the rigid control he’s exerting over his own anger… something shifts. Wearecaught in the middle. Both of us.
Pressured by fathers with impossible expectations, tangled in legacies we didn’t create. The anger I felt towards Christopher for his withdrawal fades, replaced by a grudging understanding.
Maybe even… empathy.
“Okay,” I say quietly, standing up. I walk towards him, stopping a few feet away. “So your father is a manipulative asshole who uses private investigators and ancient history to control people. And my father… might have some explaining to do about his past business practices.” I take a breath. “Sounds like we both have complicated family baggage.”
He looks at me, surprised perhaps by my lack of any outrage directed athim.
“This doesn’t change our plan regarding Morgan,” I continue, finding my resolve. “We still need proof. We still need to neutralize his leverage over Dad. This just… raises the stakes. Makes it more important to handle it carefully. Our way. Not theirs.”
The ice in his eyes seems to have thawed. “Our way,” he repeats.
The tension in the room shifts again. The anger and confusion dissipate, replaced by the familiar, potent hum of attraction.
He steps towards me, closing the small distance between us. His presence is overwhelming, filling my senses. That scent of cedar and pepper, the heat radiating from his body, the intensity in his gaze.
“He wants me to choose,” Christopher murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. “He thinks you’re a weakness.” His hand comes up, cupping my cheek, his thumb tracing my jawline. “He’s wrong.”
Then his mouth crashes down on mine. It’s not gentle. Not like the Hamptons. It’s fierce. A raw claiming likely fueled by the confrontation with his father, by the tangled history, by the undeniable chemistry crackling between us.
He kisses me like he’s staking a claim, branding me as his, defying anyone who would try to tear us apart.
My mind goes blessedly blank. All the complexities, the family drama, the corporate espionage… it fades into white noise. There’s only him. His mouth devouring mine. His body pressing close. His hand sliding down my back, gripping my hip, pulling me tight against the hard ridge straining his trousers.
Oh god.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his eyes blazing.
He backs me up against the nearest wall, his body trapping mine, leaving no room for escape, no room for doubt.
The cool plaster is a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressingagainst me.
“You’re mine, Lucy,” he whispers, his voice a rough growl against my ear, his lips tracing a fiery path down my neck. “No matter what bullshit games they play. No matter what happened years ago. Mine.”
His words, possessive, dominant, should maybe scare me. But they don’t. They thrill me. Anchor me. In this crazy, complicated mess, his certainty feels like the only solid ground.
He lifts me effortlessly, and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist. I cling to him, my dress riding up my thighs, my nails digging into the strong muscles of his back.
He carries me towards the bedroom, his mouth never leaving mine, kissing me with a desperate urgency that mirrors the frantic beating of my own heart.
He doesn’t pause when we reach the bedroom. He strides towards the massive bed, lowering me onto the soft duvet, his weight instantly pinning me down. There’s no slow seduction tonight. No gentle exploration. Just raw need. A physical assertion of connection against the forces trying to pull us apart.
He tears at my dress, the sound of ripping fabric barely registering over the blood pounding in my ears. Buttons scatter. My bra follows, discarded impatiently. His clothes join mine on the floor in a heap. His eyes devour me, hot and possessive, as his hands roam my body, staking their claim. I tremble in anticipation, biting my lower lip as my gaze drops to his throbbing member. I swallow reflexively, so eager to feel him inside of me.
He rips open a condom packet and roughly slides the thin sheath over his hungry cock.
Then he enters me with a single, powerful thrust, burying himself deep inside me.
I cry out, arching against him, taking all of him.
So fucking good.
