Page 147 of The Billionaire's Secret
I hear his footsteps thud as he walks away.
I crack my eyelids open, glance down to find I’m sprawled on my front…on Saint’s side of the bed. I’d gone too sleep on him… Had he woken up to find me coiled into him? Had he thought me weak? Because I’d submitted to him? I’d trusted him. Had I been wrong to do so? I glance over my shoulder to the open doorway of the bedroom and spot Saint. He’s naked… Of course, he is. The man doesn’t have an unconfident bone in his body.
He holds his phone to his ear, bends his other arm and runs his fingers through his hair. His biceps bulge, the planes of his back undulating. My mouth dries. I swallow.
He glances back toward me. I clamp my eyelids shut.
His voice filters through to me, "Are you sure the information is accurate?"
He listens. "The pickup is going to take place in an hour?"
Footsteps approach the doorway.
"Right."
I crack my eyelids open, enough to watch him lean against the doorjamb.
"I’ll make it."
What the fuck—? He's leaving me after what took place between us?
His gaze roves over my shoulders, across my body wreathed in his sheets. Can he tell that I'm awake?
He glances away. I relax into the sheets. His scent is all around me; the heat of his body warms the bedclothes, tempting me to roll over and wallow in the remnants of his essence. Shit. I am getting addicted to him. Why does he have to be so…so…irresistible. So damn tempting. A 100% masculine hunk who has no idea how lethal his charm can be… And he isn’t even trying.
"I know…" his tone lowers. "I am well aware that I got married three weeks ago, but this… What we do together is important."
Well,shit. Of course, whoever is on the other side of the phone takes precedence. My stomach churns and my breathing goes shallow.
Don’t let him see how pissed off you are. And I have every right. That last time together, it went beyond the realm of fucking. Besides, isn't he the one who'd said he was making love to me on our wedding night? His actions of last night—especially the way he'd lashed out at my asking about the scars, only to return to our bed and confess that he self-harms—it backs up his words.
So who is he talking to now?
He widens his stance, giving me a full-frontal view of his cock.
I swallow.
"Got it," His voice dips, "I’ll be at Mill Hill East Broadway in half an hour." He disconnects the call then crosses the floor toward the walk-in closet. I hear the sound of clothes rustling.
He’s doing it then? He's leaving?
I sit up in bed. "Saint," I call out.
He steps into the room, dressed in sneakers, jeans and a sweatshirt that stretches across his chest. My breath catches. Saint in casual wear is even more potent than Saint in office clothes.
I clear my throat, tip up my chin, "Where are you going?
His shoulders bunch.
"It's a business meeting." His glance flickers away then back to me.
My heart begins to race. He's lying; I know he is.
"In the middle of the night?" I ask. "And dressed like that?"
He raises his shoulders, then sighs, "It's a work emergency." He heads for the door.
"Don't leave."
