Page 106 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
He blows out a breath. "Look, Summer, you look beat and I could do with a rest, before we have to join the guests for dinner."
I pale.
"I don’t think I can survive having to put up this pretense again today."
"Tell me about it," he mutters. The lines around his mouth seem pronounced. His hair is mussed—from standing outside and because he’d run his hands through the thick strands. Not that I had been watching him closely or anything.
"Can we have this conversation inside my suite?" He runs a finger around his collar as if he finds it particularly constricting. He isn’t wearing a tie. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him in one, in the little time I’ve known him.
He shoves open the double doors.
I hesitate.
He raises his shoulders, "Suit yourself." He disappears inside.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, grab a strand of hair and begin to chew on it. Better stop that. Don’t want him to realize how nervous I am feeling right now. I walk toward the suite. Then step inside. The doors shut behind me with a snick.
The living space is massive. Three times the size of the room I had occupied. Right. Lifestyles of the rich and famous, huh? I walk to the massive window and peek outside.
A balcony wraps around the entire floor. On one side of the house the rolling slope of Primrose Hill extends down. I turn the other way and the skyline of London stretches in the distance. It’s rare to get a panoramic view of the city, considering government regulations dictate that you can’t build above a certain height. To see it here at will is a treat.
The sound of water running in a bath reaches me. I turn, walk toward the door that leads into the bedroom. The room sprawls out about the same size as the one I’d left behind. The pride of place is the massive king size bed that takes up almost one wall. It’s draped in a royal blue, the sheets flowing down the sides.
Large pillows are thrown against the headboard, which is made of unembellished wood. At the foot of the bed is a bench, on which he’s discarded his jacket.
The sound of running water grows louder. He stalks out of the bath, his shirt sleeves rolled up. I take in the veins that run up the sides of his powerful forearms. Does the man work out? He has to, considering the shape he is in. The light from the bath highlights the gap between his narrow waist and his forearms. His pants cling to his powerful thigh muscles, showing off the bulge between his legs. Is that his normal resting condition? The man’s packing all right, as I discovered from my brush with that particular muscle of his anatomy.
"If you keep staring at me, I’ll think you want me to exercise my husbandly duties."
My cheeks burn. I glance up at his face, to find his lips curled in that smirk that I am coming to associate with him. Why does he have to be so overpoweringly handsome, so completely sure of himself? It’s part of his appeal and yet—it also makes me want to say something to show him I am not affected by him. Liar.
"Where do I sleep?"
He glances past me.
"But there’s only one bed—"
"Which is wide enough for the two of us to sleep without touching each other all night.
I chew on my lower lip.
"Trust me." He looks me up and down, "I am acquainted with what you have under that dress, and while I’d love to shag you, I promise you I am not that hard up."
"That’s not what it looked like when you finger fucked me in the conference room."
"There was a reason for doing that."
The video.
He prowls past me, walks toward another door at the far end and shoves it open. He glances back, "I ran a bath for you."
The hell?I walk to the bathroom door and peek inside. It’s a beautiful bright space, wide enough to run the length of the bedroom and the living room, a sunken tub takes up a large portion of one entire wall. Beyond that, huge windows open out to let the sunlight inside. To the other side are twin sinks. Piles of folded towels, soap bottles, other bottles of various sizes and colors grace one of the sinks.
I pivot around and he drawls, "You’re welcome, by the way."
"You had to go and spoil it by saying that?"
He leans his hip against doorway to the walk-in closet. "Ah, but that’s the point. You’re still trying to find something nice about me, when really, every single move of mine is calculated to ensure that I get closer to my goal."
