Page 41 of The Billionaire's Second Chance
She smiled. “I thought yourthingwas being charming, and handsome–”
“–andrich,” I said, grinning now. I’d gotten used to Sami’s flat affect, her guarded expressions, the way she–occasionally, very occasionally–told jokes with a sweetly polite face. “Don’t forget rich. Which makes me the perfect first look at your manuscripts.”
“Just because you’ve read a few romance novels in Flora’s little book club,” she said, shifting to look at me, her chin tilted up defiantly despite the rest of her posture: the curve of her waist, obscured by the plush terry bathrobe, the rise of her hip. I wanted to reach out, to slide it off her shoulders, to press her onto her back, to sink into her again… “Doesn’t make you qualified to assess a query. Even if you have some experience in the matter yourself.”
“What, romancing?” Her eyes flickered upwards. “Tell me: is it working?”
She laughed softly. “Imeantbeing a billionaire. A handsome one,” she said with a slight smirk. “Green eyes, brown hair. Crooked grin. You fit the profile, you know,” she concluded, and I was opening my mouth to brag when she added, “But no. It’s not.”
“What’s not?” I asked.
“Working,” she said, giving me a flat look. Then her eyes dropped to somewhere between us. “Charlie,” she said. “Tell me. Is this how you romance all the girls?”
I frowned. “What?”
“An expensive hotel suite? Room service?” she asked, meeting my gaze again.
“No,” I said. My voice was softer than I intended, my heart feeling oddly heavy in my chest. “No, I… I take them out,” I said. She raised an eyebrow. I’d been undressed this whole time, in only my boxer briefs, but now, I felt naked. Exposed. “Iwould, I mean. I would pick her up–my driver would–from her apartment.” She nodded–she’d ridden in my car, been chauffeured by my driver, although it had been only rides home after. “I’d open her door for her,” I said. “And… I’d take her to dinner. At arestaurant,” I said as Samantha’s eyes darted to our empty plates stacked on the dresser. “Somewhere dark and romantic. Withreally fucking goodCaesar salad.” I grinned when the corner of her lip tilted upwards. “And when the waiter asks if we want dessert, she says–”
“No,” Samantha cut in. “She’s too eager to go home.”
“Of course she is,” I said, glancing down at my crotch obnoxiously. “Who wouldn’t be?” Her nose wrinkled, but when I moved a little closer on the bed, she didn’t move away. “So I roll the divider up so the driver can’t hear, and…” I brought my hand up, skimming my fingers over the line of her jaw. Her head followed the movement; when I got to the perfect point of her chin, I pressed my index finger into the soft hollow underneath it to tip it back up again where it belonged, proud and confident. “And then I kiss her.”
Samantha’s eyes closed, her dark lashes fanned against her soft cheeks, her pink lips softly parted. I pressed my mouth to hers, gentle at first, feeling her relax into the kiss. Feeling myself relax in turn. No, hotels and room service weren’thow I romanced all the girls, as Sami had put it, but also…
No one else had felt like this, had they?
No one else, since that first night, had felt like her. Even without the restaurants and the chauffeured Town Car and the anonymous, interchangeable gifts, the hothouse flowers and imported chocolates and diamond earrings thatall the girlscoveted.
Even when all we had was fifteen years of frustration and aphenomenallylarge tab at the Sterling Hotel, something about thisalwaysfelt right.
I deepened the kiss, pulling her lower lip between my teeth to nip at its plush softness, then sliding my tongue between hers as she made a small, soft sound caught halfway between a sigh and a gasp. My hand slid from the indentation of her waist into the small of her back, pulling her against me. I could feel my cock stirring back to life, growing harder behind the constricting jersey of my boxer briefs, and I was sure she could too; her robe had fallen open at some point and her skin was warm and soft everywhere we touched. Her hand snaked between us, skimming over my length. I shuddered.
“Can you feel how much I want you, sweetheart?” I asked. “I always want you, Sami, I–”
“Shh,” she said, her hand wrapping around my shaft in earnest. “Sweetheart,” she said. Corrected.
“Sweetheart,” I repeated, kissing along her jaw, her cheekbone, the bridge of her nose. “You like that?” She tugged down my boxer briefs in response, stroking me back to rigidity, and I let my eyes close, sinking into the feeling of her hands on my skin. “Fuck, you want to… Again, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” she said, and I rolled over on top of her, her robe open now, grinding my cock against her soft thigh for a moment. “I want–” She exhaled, a shuddery sigh, as I lined myself up with her entrance. “Please, Charlie,” she breathed. I sank into her, drowning in sweetness and honey andpleaseandSamantha, Samantha, Samantha.
CHAPTER21
Charlie
“Charlie Martin!”
It was times like these–with the first trickle of party guests streaming into the hall, their murmured conversations rising around us–that I was reminded that Elena Lawson had been a teacher before she became a superintendent. Even from a dozen paces away, her voice carried easily, and I found myself straightening self-consciously in my tux as if she’d caught me drinking cheap vodka at prom, and not champagne at a gala I myself had organized.
With Samantha. I’d caught her in my arms last night before she vanished down to the curb and my driver.I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart, I’d said, and she’d glared at me, then opened her mouth under mine.Tomorrow, she’d said. I tried not to think of it as a promise.
“Superin–” I caught myself. “Elena,” I said. “You look lovely tonight.” I’d never seen her wear anything but a shapeless pantsuit. Tonight she was still wearing a pantsuit, but perhaps one she’d gotten tailored in the past decade. Perhaps just for the occasion.Good for her.
“You flatter me,” the woman said, but she wore a pleased smile.
“Habit,” I smiled back. “And one I hope will inspire a lot of donations to the fundraising campaign,” I added with a wink. She chuckled. “You haven’t seen Samantha, have you?” I knew she was here–she’d texted me when she arrived, just as I was checking in with the musicians. The day-of coordinator, a woman named Camille, was officially in charge of everything running smoothly, but it never hurt to double check.
“I did, by the silent auction table. You know,” the woman glanced around at our surroundings: the elegant marble columns, the men in tuxedos and women in cocktail dresses and floor length gowns, glittering with jewels. “You two exceeded my expectations.”
