Page 8 of The Billionaire's Second Chance
It didn’t matter what his chest looked like, or his abs, or his–
Because I knew without seeing it what hisfacelooked like.
Thatfuckingsmirk.
I took a deep breath.
“Put your clothes on, Charlie,” I said, and stood, wrapping the sheet around myself. “It’s time to get up.”
“It’s six in the morning, Sam,” he said, sounding slightly less cocky, and slightly more awake, whether he wanted to be or not. “Come back to bed. We don’t have to do anything,” he went on. The crisp hotel linens swished, and I could picture him propping himself on his elbow. “We can sleep. Or… talk. Cuddle, if you want.”
Just in case I wasn’t mortified enough already, Charlie wanted me to crawl into bed in the growing light of morning, naked, andcuddle.
Right.
Like he wanted tocuddle.
Like he’d wanted to talk, after thelasttime. I huffed out a laugh. Atanytime during the lastfifteenyears. “Pleasedon’t,” I snapped. It was just like him to tease me now, now that he’d gotten what he wanted.Again. What I had wanted, although it was hard, now, to remember why I had wanted it so badly that I’dactually gone through with it. My dress was in a heap on the floor, the silk wrinkled, and I bent awkwardly to pick it up. My panties were next to it, similarly crumpled. Heat rose on my cheeks–and, terribly, in my belly–as I remembered the way he touched them last night, first almost reverently, careful fingers tracing over intricate lace, then with urgency, the sodden cloth pulled roughly aside…
Well, those were a loss. I grabbed my clutch from the side of the chair and shoved the ruined lace inside, shielding my hands from his view with my sheet-wrapped torso. I didn’t need Charlie telling everyone that Sam Scott went commando. My stomach twisted. Hewouldn’ttell everyone, would he?Wouldhe?
No, he wouldn’t. He was a cocky asshole, but he wasn’t ajerk.
“Looking for this?” he asked, as if he wastryingto prove me wrong. “It was on my side.” I turned to face him, only to see him dangling my bra from one finger. He was still reclining, looking like the Greek god of smug satisfaction, but he’d propped a pillow up in front of his hips at least. I held out a hand, and he tossed it over.
I caught it, and stood for a moment, clutching it to my chest with my phone, purse, dress, thesheets…
The pit yawning in my stomach had nothing to do with having left before they even served the dinner last night.
Why was it always,alwaysCharlie?
Why,whywas it him?
I wouldn’t cry.
He wasn’t worth it.
No one was.
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Hey, Sami,” Charlie said, his voice quiet, “is everything o–”
“Please don’t tell anyone about this,” I said, cutting him off.
When I opened my eyes again, his brow was furrowed. He sat up, dropping his bare feet off the far side of the bed. He bent, the muscles of his back flexing for a moment, before standing, sliding black boxer briefs and black tuxedo pants up over his firm ass. There was the soft sound of a zipper, and then he turned, half-dressed.
“I don’t kiss and tell, Sami,” he said, his expression unreadable. “You know that.”
The breath escaped me in a rush.
I did. Fifteen years, and he’d never mentioned my indiscretions to a soul.
Fifteen years, and I’d indulged in the same mistake all over again.
“Thank you.”
“Sami,” he said again, “if you want to talk about this, we–”
