Page 54 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

Spencer is back, threatening to tangle us in his leash, breaking the moment. “Well…thank you,” I gust out, words ragged, as if all of my anguish gusts out with them.

“You’re welcome,” he says gruffly.

“No, really, thank you,” I say again. “I don’t know why I’m so emotional.”

“How much does it hurt?” he asks straight out, apropos of nothing.

I shake my head, desperate to get off of this subject, casting around in my mind for anything else. I focus on Spencer. I need to say something about Spencer.

“That bad, huh,” he says bluntly. Because he’s a guy who sees the important things and, of course, he’ll have some shit to say about them, because he has zero tact.

I can’t look at him now, because it feels like my whole face is warm, like wet steam is taking over my eyeballs, tears trying to escape like horrible little prisoners. That’s what a bundle of emo I am. Like all the bottled-up worry was waiting for somebody to ask. Emo at the gates, pounding at the gates.

“Fuck off,” I breathe.

A finger on my chin. The shock of contact electrifies my skin. He turns my face to his. My heart pounds like a jackhammer. The feel of his finger—that one finger at the base of my chin—it’s blowing me apart.

He adds another, a touch light as feathers, two fingers on my chin.

I stare up into his pale brown eyes, and he’s studying my about-to-cry face or maybe I am crying—are tears actually out of my eyes or are they just bunching up in there?

Except my whole world is those fingers, now. I like them there, and I have the crazy impulse to turn my head so that his fingers would be on my cheek, too.

Maybe I’d turn my head some more so that his fingers would be in my hair or even my arm. I suddenly have all this empathy for cats with catnip toys, trying to rub their bodies all over something, all at once, because that’s how I am with Benny’s fingers.

And I feel like he sees everything, like he gets how much I care about my dreams. And he’s beautiful and so very Benny with his vexatious fractional percentages.

Two hands move abruptly in to cradle my neck in a motion that is way more Vegas nerd Benny than suave Manhattan Benny.

Something in my belly melts. My gaze drops to his lips.

Abruptly, he clutches the back of my neck. “Francine,” he whispers hoarsely. The sounds of the park become hollow and distant compared to the whooshing of my ears.

“What?” I blurt.

Everything goes still for a moment. Brown eyes regard me with a million percent intensity.

And then he kisses me. It’s not just any kiss, it’s a feverish torrent, unpolished and true. He groans, fingertips tightening on me. I pull him to me, pull his magnetized self flush against my breasts. I need more of this kiss—the delicious Benny kiss that is so devoid of coolness, of suaveness, of any game whatsoever. I need more of him.

He rumbles in that low Benny rumble. It sets off explosions in the back of my head.

And then he pulls away.

My heart is racing, and I’m so not done with this kiss; like a madwoman, I grip his upper arm, thick with muscle and urge him back toward my nerd-turned-wolf-seeking lips.

Suddenly he’s kissing me again—with more energy this time. He’s claiming my lips with mad hunger. I’m gripping his shoulder while my free fist makes mincemeat of his shirtfront.

Kissing Benny is everything I love. I imagined it ten years ago, but the reality is so much better.

I pull him in more tightly. Like we’re holding each other in place, in this swirling strange place we shouldn’t be in.

His tongue is in my mouth, a wholehearted and passionate invasion of my mouth that I very much welcome.

Energy skitters over my skin. The sound of his rumbly groan reverberates through me. His mouth is so delicious. File this kiss under wrong, wrong, wrong. Also file under: amazing. So freaking amazing. The more I have of him the more I crave.

“Unnngh,” I say.

He sucks in a breath and kisses me anew. He’s definitely shed his well-practiced cool-guy veneer, and I love it.

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