Page 51 of How to Bang a Billionaire

“I’m not a child,” I mumbled.

“Then stop acting like one.”

“I’m pretty sure that going clubbing and getting drunk are PEGI 18 activities.”

“Being immoderate, undisciplined, and incapable of taking care of yourself, however, are not.”

I tugged the covers up to my chin. “I can take care of myself. That guy wasn’t going to…going to do anything.”

“Considering how excised you were when you thought I’d offered your college a donation in exchange for a blow job, I’m somewhat surprised at your willingness to sexually barter yourself in an alley.”

“I wasn’t bartering.” I tugged at my hair, which felt awful and smelled worse. Clubs and smoke and sweat and other people’s hands. “I just…I just didn’t want him to fuck me.”

Caspian sighed. The sound felt familiar somehow. He rose with easy grace and came into the bedroom. There was something weirdly normal, even domestic about it, as if I were his lover and this a morning in our life.

Except none of that was true. This was a hotel room. He was Caspian Hart. And I was naked and ashamed.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you no means no?”

“I’m not an idiot or a psychopath. I was taught that at school, by my parents, by my own conscience. I would never—”

“I meant you.”

I flinched from the way he was looking at me. Sometimes his gentleness was the most terrifying thing of all. “I wasn’t saying no.”

“Did you want to have sex with him?”

“Well, no, but that’s not the point.”

“What was the point?”

“I…that way…I wasn’t…” I was way too hungover for this. “I was still in control, okay? It was still my choice.”

His mouth tightened but it seemed his annoyance wasn’t for me. For once. “I could kill that boy.”

“I’m okay. He was just…a bit…”

“Violence is not the only form of coercion, and coercion has no place in sex. And you shouldn’t do things you don’t want to do. Ever.”

“I know. It’s just…” I picked at the snowy white sheets. “I don’t want to be punished for liking sex. It’s not my fault the world is fucked up.”

Now it was his turn to glance away. “And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“No offense, but that’s pretty ironic coming from the man who rejected me twice.”

“That was…I thought it was for the best.”

“And you know something else?” It was hard, after last night, to have much by way of credibility, but I was still the same person who’d been thrilled to suck him off on a balcony. Who’d chased him to London. Who’d hurt myself for his asking and my own pleasure. “Yes, last night wasn’t what I wanted. He was wrong and I was messed up and I’m glad nothing happened. But I know what I’m doing and I know what I like and sometimes”—it was even harder saying this shit to a man’s profile—“with the right person when it’s done in the right way…that can include…I guess…certain types of coercion.” Like your hands on my wrists, your voice on the phone.

I waited for him to get it. To understand. To admit the connection between us.

Instead he was silent for…well…basically ever. And then, “So you intimated last night.”

Not what I was looking, or hoping, for.

And…wait…I did what?

Sorting through last night’s memories was like peering into a stranger’s sock drawer.

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