Page 31 of Falling for Mr. Billionaire

I sit up slowly, smoothing my dress and avoiding his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

I stand. My legs are shaky. My entire body still aches for him.

But my mind won’t let me forget that call. It’s not like I’m jealous or anything, but I don’t want to be that girl who sleeps with other people’s men. No matter how impossible it may seem.

“Goodnight, Carter.”

I walk toward the bedroom, my heart pounding, my thighs still trembling from the edge I was so close to falling over.

And I swear I can still feel him between my legs long after I close the door.

***

I wake up tangled in sheets that smell like him.

Vanilla and cedar. Warm skin and a night I almost didn’t walk away from.

Almost.

My body still hums. My thighs are sore, my chest tender. Every inch of me is heavy with the ghost of his touch. The way he kissed me. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t a detour, but the damn destination.

And for a moment—God, for a moment—I believed it.

I roll onto my back, eyes fluttering to the ceiling. I don’t want to move. Because if I move, I have to face him. If I get up, I have to look him in the eye and pretend I didn’t almost beg him to—

Nope.

I throw off the blanket and drag myself to the bathroom. Cold water. Deep breaths. A blank expression I can wear like armor.

I pull on a white tank top and linen shorts, run a brush through my hair, and take a moment in the mirror. My skin’s flushed, lips still slightly swollen, and I don’t need to remember why—I feel it.

By the time I step out into the suite, I smell it.

Coffee. Eggs. Butter. Something sweet.

He’s standing at the stove, shirtless, plaid pajama pants riding low on his hips, flipping a golden crepe in the pan like some kind of domestic god. His back is all sculpted muscle and tension. Every line of him is unfair. And I hate that my first thought is, I wonder what he’d look like making me breakfast after sex.

He glances over his shoulder and smiles—soft, unreadable.

“Morning.”

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I made a little of everything,” he says, nodding toward the counter. There’s toast, butter, berries, crepes, scrambled eggs, a bowl of tropical fruit, and the coffee smell fills the entire room.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

I hesitate, hovering like I don’t know where to stand. Because I don’t.

He plates a crepe and slides it onto the table. “Eat. Please.”

I move slowly, taking the chair across from his. He pours coffee into a mug and passes it to me. His fingers brush mine for a second too long.

“I added a little coconut cream. Hope that’s okay.”

---