Page 50 of Enemies

“Where do you… you know?”

“What?”

“Hook up. You don’t do it at the house. I would’ve heard you if it was in your room, and I explored every inch of the villa while you were gone. There’s no secret sex room or anything.”

“Ah. Because I’m such a prolific adorer of women, I must be bedding them indiscriminately? Including since you arrived?”

The flash of his eyes should be a warning.

“Pretty much. I mean, you are the chairman of the British Billionaire Club.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a thing,” I go on, deadpan. “You have elections, and meetings, and a dress code. Plus closed door events where you whip out your cash and measure how tall the stacks are.”

He leans in and tugs on my hair, his expression solemn. “You’re not supposed to know about that.”

I toss back my head and laugh. It feels so damn good, and when he grins too, I wonder if it’s contagious.

“Besides,” he goes on, “I’m keeping busy with the DJ in residence at ‘one of Ibiza’s hidden gems.’”

He holds out his phone.

I scan the social media post from an influencer who happened to be at one of last week’s shows.

His hand covers mine. The contact has my pulse thudding harder as I finish scanning the raving post. “That’s fucking awesome,” I say.

“It’d be more awesome if she’d clean my pool with her thong.”

We made that bargain weeks ago. Something has shifted between us since, though I never gave permission. Now, the alcohol and high from the show and the way he’s looking at me have me feeling invincible.

This place might not be my home, but I can’t argue with the feeling pulsing through me, the familiarity of the staff and the setup and the bar, the hope that I could belong here—not only Little Queen, but Rae too.

And the man who owns it, the one I spent months hating, is one I would have run from once but now I want to lean into.

Every time he pushes me, I push back.

I don’t break, only bend.

The newfound confidence makes me bold.

“Are you asking?” I taunt.

I’m close enough to see the tiny dots in his shirt print. His body blocks most of the room, and I can only see one of the envious women eyeing us from the corner.

“Come on, Harry, don’t be shy. You can admit that what you want most after coming home from a long, hard work trip is a pair of my underwear to jerk off with.”

His nostrils flare.

The hit of triumph twines with attraction surging through my veins, a cocktail more potent than the one I’m drinking.

I take the cherry from the bottom of my glass and suck on it.

If I didn’t already know I’d raised the stakes, it’s evident in the pulse in his neck. The way his gaze darkens with intent as he leans in, resting a hand lightly on my hip.

“Then give them to me.”

His rough whisper in my ear, his firm lips tickling my skin, makes me forget basic functions.

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