Page 147 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad
"That you need me."
"Hmm."
"That you’re the only one for me."
His fingers squeeze mine and the clay tumbles over again. "Now look what you’ve done," I huff. "I’ll have to start all over again."
"Will you let me do the same?"
I freeze, stare at the shapeless lump of clay on the wheel that swirls in front of me. "What do you mean?" I whisper.
"I mean, can we start over again, you and me?"
There it is. The words I wanted to hear, and it’s a start, but I want more.
"When you said your wedding vows, did you mean them?"
"You know I did." He reaches past me and throws the switch that shuts down the momentum of the wheel.
In the silence that descends, I can hear my heartbeat. Or is that his? "And yet, you walked away from me. You left me when I needed you most."
"I had to," he insists. "Don’t you see? If I had let you stay, I would have only hurt you more. The way I hurt my daughter. Hell, even the mother of my child, who I should have treated better."
My belly clenches and a burning sensation fills my chest. Shit, why am I jealous of a woman who is already dead?
"None of that was your fault."
He laughs, the sound hard. "My rational mind realizes that, but tell that to my heart, Flower. The thought of being without you, of living with the guilt of something happening to you is a powerful motivator. It makes me want to spirit you away somewhere, away from the eyes of the world, where nothing and no one can harm you."
I close my eyes; my pulse thuds at my temples. This man. Only he can string together words to form a sentence that punches me straight in the gut. I turn my face, so my lips are next to his. "Then do it," I say. "Hide me away where no one else can see me but you, no one else can touch me but you, no one else can make love to me but—"
He closes his lips over mine.
49
Damian
I’d raced to her with the intent of talking to her, making sure she knows how I feel, but one glance at her gorgeous features, a whiff of that delectable feminine scent of hers, a single touch of her skin, and I am a goner. I need to hold her close, kiss her lips, nibble my way down her body and lick my way up every single curve to reassure myself that she is still with me. I slide my tongue inside her mouth, suck on her essence and kiss her, drawing her breath into every part of me. The blood rushes to my groin, the pulse pounding in my balls. I cup her cheek, hold her in place as I kiss her. She moans low in her throat, strains against my chest. I fold my arms over hers and wrap them around her body, holding her immobile. She wriggles her hips, thrusting back and into the cradle of my hips. I can’t stop the growl that rips from me. "Jesus, Flower, you’re so damn responsive."
She arches her spine back, rolls her head into my shoulder. I release her arm, only to cup her breast and squeeze.
She whimpers and the sound goes straight to my head. I pinch her nipple through the wet cloth that clings to her curves and she cries out.
"Who does this belong to?" I ask.
"You, Damian," she mumbles.
I drag my hand down to cup the flesh between her legs. "Who does your pussy belong to, Flower?"
"You," she gasps. "Only you."
"You drive me crazy, you know that?" I growl.
She moans again, turns her head, reaches for my mouth with hers, but I pull back. I reach over, scoop up some of the slip and smear it across her chest, around her breasts, outlining her nipples. I survey the results, then nod. "Now that’s my idea of a bust."
She glances down, then chuckles. "Not very artistic, but it’ll do."
"I’ve been dying to do that since you first told me that you were a clay artist."
