Page 30 of Seducing the Billionaire

She nods, not looking at me. “It’s just hard. She’s an adult. I shouldn’t be policing her. But how can I watch her become an addict or something if I could prevent it?” She looks up at me, tears swimming in her eyes, and I go to her without a thought, crossing the room before I know what I’m doing to wrap an arm around her, hugging her into my side.

She sniffles, turning her face into my chest, and my eyes automatically shut, reveling in the feel of her so close. Does she have anyone she can lean on? Rely on? Or is the burden on her shoulders alone?

“Does your dad help out with any of this?”

“No,” she murmurs into my shirt. “They aren’t together.”

“Divorced?”

She lifts her head, rubbing underneath her eyes. “Affair. He was married.”

Wow. No wonder she has issues with him. “Oh. Um, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine. But he still pays a lot of our bills. Or used to, at least.”

Is that why she’s tight on money? Not just her mom’s doctor visits?

“Thanks for listening to me. And sorry for crying on your shirt.” She wipes at the spot on my chest, her hand warm through the fabric. “I hope you didn’t take it as too…” Her gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there. “Unprofessional.”

Oh, God. She really can’t look at me like that, whether it’s unconscious or not. I realize then my arm is still around her, her side pressed into mine, and I drop my arm, the action obvious in the wake of her statement.

“No, you’re fine.” How can I say anything when I’m the one who asked her to confide in me? When I was the one who comforted her? “But I should get going. It’s getting late.” Yeah, right. It’s probably not even past nine-thirty.

“Yeah, of course.” She hugs her arms tight to herself, a faint blush staining her cheeks. So she picked up on my lame excuse. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Emma.”

I let myself out before I start rationalizing why it would be okay to stay a bit longer, to talk a little more, to get even closer. With the way my body reacts to her, I’m playing with fire, and the better I get to know her, the will to stay away crumbles more.

An hour later, I walk into my hotel room, setting the key card down on the foyer table, and flick on the lights, idly playing a few notes on the Steinway as I pass by it. There’s something about tonight that makes me look at the place with fresh eyes after seeing Emma’s home. The Italian marble mantle over the fireplace. The unparalleled views of Central Park and the Upper East Side from the private terrace. I wander into the bathroom, taking note of the deep soaking tub I’ve never used, the ridiculous amount of luxury and opulence I’m hardly even aware of because it’s become so commonplace. I should use that tub tonight. Actually enjoy the amenities I pay for here, but I don’t want to wash the day away just yet.

The soothing tones of cream and beige are echoed throughout the small apartment as I head into the bedroom, but I must be immune to the colors because all I feel is a pervading sense of detachment from it all. Will it be different when I move into Bishop Tower? Will it feel like mine after it’s redecorated?

I’ve always stayed in hotels whenever working on a project. It’s easy, it’s fast, and it’s not like money’s a concern. But those places were temporary, and New York isn’t. I could grow roots here. This is where I grew up, where my brothers are, my new company, and… Emma.

She was stunning in that red dress tonight. An unwitting vixen beckoning me to take another look. Get a little closer. And in reality, she wasn’t in anything more revealing than half the other women there, but the fact that it was her wearing it…

I groan, desire rushing through me, an unwelcome visitor I keep pushing away more and more lately. But tonight I’d had her in my arms, however briefly, my body singing even as I tried to ignore it. That jump in my belly as she’d hugged me, inhaling her seductive scent. The innocent way she’d looked up at me, all the more alluring because of how genuine she is. Her waist right under my fingertips, the silky feel of her dress adding to the sensory overload of the moment.

My dick lengthens behind my fly, and I waver, so tired of pushing this feeling away, wanting for once to indulge in whatIwant. Not the company I didn’t ask for, the legacy Dad hefted on my shoulders, the expectations, the demands. Something private. For me.

And what I want, what I’ve wanted from the beginning, is her.

I unzip my pants, palming myself, moaning aloud at the relief coursing through me as I take that first stroke from base to tip. How does she do this to me? How is it that one person can have such an impact? What is it about her I find so intoxicating?

The husky timbre of her voice that weaves itself around my senses?

Those lush curves I’m dying to grip more fully?

Those wild curls begging for my fingers to run through them?

But more than those superficial things are the ways she’s snuck under the barricade I set up initially. I thought I’d be safe if there was no physical contact, that she’d no longer have an effect on me. But I didn’t account for the way she would look out for me, ask me questions like she cares, try to help as much as she does.

And then at her house, the way she’d confided in me, leaned on me for support. I can’t deny the pleasure that rushed through me, being there for her like that. Being someone she can count on, can turn to, can trust. I want to be that. I want to be more.

My strokes speed up remembering the sensation of her body next to mine, how close she’d been, how much I wish things were different. That we were two normal people. ThatIwas normal. That I could be with someone without the public commenting on it. Without feeling guilty as hell for thinking this way at all.

But I’m too far gone to care.

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