Page 27 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

Would I be able to feel his pounding pulse? Would his skin feel hot? Or cool and smooth like his new personality?

It’s right here that I realize Icantouch him. I’m his charming wife now, aren’t I? This is what he requested, is it not? Me to play his charming wife?

“Oh, Benny,” I say. Tentatively I reach up—I want so badly to touch him, skin to skin, to maybe slide my thumb over his mind-bendingly masculine lips, so thick and expressive, but I chicken out and straighten his collar instead, movements light and unsure.

His chest rises minutely, as if with a sudden intake of breath.

“My Benny,” I say, and then, as if my fingers have a mind of their own, they graze his neck, right over his thrumming pulse point, a slide of skin on skin, alive like fire.

My heart skips a beat. The floor seems to tilt.

His gaze is stony. Does he not like me touching him? Because I love it. I’m shocked at how much I love it. Touching him is strangely addictive. His skin is kind of…wonderful. Beckoning.

I pretend to rub something off of his jaw with my thumb. His eyes flare minutely.

I need to stop this madness—I really do. I’m literally helping myself to his face and neck.

I settle my fingers back on his neck, smiling at him like I’m so thrilled with life. I can feel his pulse, strong and hot as a war drum, this hard-pounding center of him. The pale brown crackles in his irises seem to glow.

Heat seems to rise between us.

Before I can even think what I’m doing, I brush the pad of my thumb over his bottom lip. It’s soft as I ever imagined—rosy and soft but strangely commanding.

Benny, I chant in my mind.Benny, Benny, Benny.

What is happening? What am I even doing?

“There,” I say, as if there was some kind of purpose to this whole melodrama. Like he had a crumb there or something.

Quickly I remove my hands from his person.

Seven

Benny

She touches my throat,fingertips like wicked butterflies, gazing at me the way that only she can.

The bright intensity of her radiates through my core.

I suck in a steadying breath.Calm. Cool. Collected.I say the words. I count backwards in my mind from 237, a technique that usually keeps me steady.

It doesn’t work. She looks unbelievable. Her breasts look unbelievable. Her lips. Fucking unbelievable.

I focus on a color in the room. I imagine my arms heavy and warm. I have a whole arsenal of techniques to stay smooth and controlled, to keep the awkward, frenetic nerd at bay. He’s a relic of the past.

She’s worn the worst possible thing she could wear. Clearly she’s heard the rumors. It’s clever, I’ll give her that. Devil-may-care Francine, dancing across the stage like a firebird, setting the very scenery ablaze. She’s hot as hell in the dress. And she’s touching me. And I’m hard as concrete.

She removes her hands.

I pull my gaze away and glance over her shoulder. Aaron’s gaze is hard; he looks like he’s having a coronary event. I don’t blame him. Francine’s actively jeopardizing a deal worth hundreds of millions of dollars with her bullshittery.

I fix her with a glare. Sleek braids twist around her head. She always wore elegant ballet hairdos; this one is more complex than usual. She looks gorgeous, yes, but if she thinks I’m still that kid from Vegas, she’s in for a rude awakening. That kid is dead and buried with a stake through his heart.

Gary, one of the Texans, is expounding upon the subject of taxis versus Ubers and Lyfts, and everybody is chiming in. The center of gravity of the table is elsewhere, being that everybody has an opinion, but it could be that they’re just seeking escape from the awkward and downright bizarre situation of Francine playing the part of my captive Swiss wife. And perhaps my inconvenient and entirely momentary enchantment with her as well.

I lower my voice. “You think you’re funny?”

“Very,” she whispers.

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