Page 63 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
Adrenaline laces my blood. I tip my chin up, "Me. I suggest that I lead the initiative."
Color sears his cheeks. Okay, strike that. Maybe it is too early to celebrate. His biceps bulge; the tendons of his neck flex as he swallows. Guess he didn’t like what I said, huh? I don’t blame him. If I were in his shoes—though his pants are what I’d rather be in, actually— Shut up, what are you thinking? Get the hell out, while he’s too shocked to react.
"Umm. I’ll be going then." I slip out of my chair, grab my bag, slink toward the door.
"Ms. West."
I keep going.
"I didn’t dismiss you yet."
The look on your face said it all, asshole. If you think I am going to wait for you to dole out any other punishment—my stomach flip flops—nervousness that’s all it is. The faster I get out of here, the better. I reach the door and squeeze the handle.
"Okay."
I freeze. He didn’t say that. No way. Nope. Nah. I open the door a crack.
"If you leave now—"
"Yes, I am aware." I raise a finger above my shoulder "You’ll get my sister’s appointment with the doctor cancelled. And you won’t give me the account to FOK—which, by the way, the name sucks— I mean it’s intriguing, but not exactly what you’d call a public relations success, considering all the connotations that go with it—"
A feminine groan fills the air.
I stiffen.
The sound of skin hitting flesh, a low moan bleeds into the space between us. All the hair on the nape of my neck rises. Bloody fish in boots, it couldn’t be.
I spin around. His burning indigo gaze clashes with mine. I flinch. The force of his dominance seems to swell, until the air is thick with unspoken words… desires… lust. Anger coats my blood. At him. At myself. For hating him. And wanting him. Dense hatred for everything he stands for; the absolute power that he wields crashes home. "You didn’t."
He doesn’t move a muscle.
Another harsh gasp pulses from the phone on the table and the blood thuds at my temples. I race to the table. He doesn’t react. I snatch up the phone. Don’t look at the screen. Don’t. My gaze drops to the expanse.
My face is front and center. Head thrown back; eyes closed. Color flushed cheeks, hair clings to my forehead. It’s the visage of a woman in the throes of absolute ecstasy. Bile rises up my throat. The camera angle had caught me in all my pre-climactic glory; and him? There’s only the hard muscle of his bicep from the arm he’d thrown around me—it could have been anyone. Of course, he’d ensured that his reputation wouldn’t be touched by this.
The on-screen me grips the muscle of his forearm, arches her neck, her mouth rounded in an O. It’s filthy, dirty… and completely arousing. My stomach clenches. I can’t tear my eyes off of the screen.
An arm fills my line of vision. He takes the phone from me, shuts off the video.
Silence descends on the space.
He stands not a few inches away from me. The heat from his body envelops me. I shiver. My palms and feet are so cold. "I thought you said there were no cameras—"
"I lied."
Of course. "Hangonabloodysecond," I force the words out through lips gone numb. "You answered your phone, so you couldn't have been recording on it..."
He curls an eyebrow. I stiffen. "So there was another camera in the room...?"
He circles the air with his finger.
"More than one camera?"
He tilts his head. My knees buckle, I dig my heels in for purchase.
Honor among thieves? Meredith has no idea she is working with the devil in disguise. As am I.
The world spins, my knees seem to buckle, and darkness closes in.
