Page 49 of How to Bang a Billionaire

Eventually I became aware that Caspian had an arm around me, keeping me steady against his body. And then he was pushing a soft, cotton handkerchief into my hand. And, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, I’d probably just thrown up on his shoes.

I opened my mouth to apologize but that just made my stomach decide that more of my innards wanted to be outards. The second wave was even worse than the first. Painful spasms of mortification and bile, when I was already weak from my previous adventure in Vomitlandia.

And when I was done—done again—I felt like lying down in the street, ideally to die.

Caspian sighed.

It was the most devastating noise I’d ever heard.

And absolutely the last thing I wanted from a man who had once maybe fancied me. Fancied me enough to put bits of himself into bits of me at any rate. You probably didn’t feel that way about boys who’d just regurgitated their guts all over you.

I mumbled another sorry. What the fuck else was I going to do?

He sighed again. “For God’s sake, stop apologizing.”

He would probably have stepped away from me—and I wouldn’t have blamed him—but the moment he moved, I wobbled pathetically, and he pulled me back to his side. It wasn’t a kindly hold. It was protective like Kevlar, which was to say: solid and impersonal. But I was feeling so fragile and hollowed out that it was just what I needed. A certainty of strength.

I turned into him, as though I could hide from everything—him, me, the whole damn universe—in the crook of his arm.

“Come along,” he said.

He tugged and I followed, stumbling as the world rocked around me. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to bed.”

I was drunk enough for this idea to swing me effortlessly, and almost instantly, from the depths of shame to wild optimism. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Where you will sleep.”

“Oh.” I peered up at him. Making my eyes as big as they could go.

He cleared his throat. “Alone.”

I flopped against his shoulder as he hustled me along. Vaguely aware we were on the street now. All gold and hazy.

“That’s your stern voice,” I told him. Because it was. “I love your stern voice.”

“Arden…”

“Thass your stern voice too. S’all sweet and shudder-making.” I moaned with longing, stumbling into him this time, trying to get even closer. “Makes me want to get on my knees for you. Feel your hands on me. Your teeth. Your cock inside me. Want to suffer for you and scream and beg and make you happy—”

“This is my annoyed voice, Arden. Because I am annoyed. It’s a wonder you’re not in hospital. Or at the police station.”

I smiled up at him. Floaty somehow. “But you rescued me.”

“I didn’t rescue you. I just…happened to be there.”

“In Pretty Woman, when Richard Gere comes to rescue Julia Roberts, she rescues him right back.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

I was going to answer, I really was, but everything was spinning away from me. Darkness lapping at the corners of my eyes.

I felt weightless suddenly, and I thought I’d fallen.

But there was no ground. Only sky.

And warmth. Such deep warmth. Covering me. Holding me.

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