Page 69 of Dial B for Billionaire

I should say no. Should maintain some boundary, some pretense that this is casual. Instead, I burrow closer.

“OK.”

He presses a kiss to my hair. “Thank you.”

“For staying?”

“For being here. For wanting this despite all the reasons we shouldn't.” His voice carries weight I'm not ready to examine. “For seeing me as more than the corporate villain your father paints.”

“You're not a villain.” I prop myself up to look at him. “Complicated? Yes. Frustrating? Absolutely. But not a villain.”

“Your father would disagree.”

“My father thinks anyone who challenges him is evil.” I trace his jaw. “He'll come around. Eventually.”

“And if he doesn't?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with implications. What are we really doing here? What happens when everyone finds out?

“Then we deal with it,” I say finally. “Tomorrow. Tonight, can we just be Bennett and Layla? Not CEO and COO?”

“I'd like that.” He pulls me down for a kiss that quickly heats. “Though I should mention—the night's not over.”

“No?”

“I believe I mentioned multiples. Plural. More than two.”

“You really are trying to ruin me.”

“I am,” he rasps, rolling us again so I'm on top. “I'm going to be the best mistake you ever make.”

As his mouth finds mine again, as his hands start their devastating exploration, I think he might be right.

BENNETT

My phone buzzes for the third time in two minutes. Tokyo. Or Caleb. Or any of the dozen fires that need my attention. I reach for it, then freeze.

Layla's arm tightens across my chest, her mumbled protest warm against my skin.

The entire Mercer Capital empire can wait.

I set the phone aside and study her in the morning light. Hair wild across my pillow. Makeup smudged. One leg tangled with mine, the sheet barely covering her. She looks thoroughly debauched.

Perfect.

She shifts, pressing closer, and her eyes flutter open. Confusion gives way to recognition, then to a slow smile that hits me directly in the chest.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi.”

Her hand traces lazy patterns on my chest. “What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.”

“Early.” She stretches against me, every inch of skin sliding against mine. “Plenty of time.”

“Time for what?”

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