Page 37 of The Reluctant Billionaire

She nods again. ‘Go on,’ she says, her voice amused.

That does it. I tug the t-shirt straight up and yank it off over her head as she raises her arms for me.

She’s in just the bra and her cutoffs now, and I survey the picture. Fuck, the bra is ugly—a shiny, depressing beige with sensible, supportive straps and not a nipple in sight. Still, it has her tits practically on a platter and it gives her one hell of a cleavage. When I drag my eyes downwards, the soft, tanned skin of her stomach draws me in.

‘Grim, isn’t it?’ she says.

‘There is nothing grim about you, Carlotta,’ I say. ‘Nice cleavage.’

She smirks. ‘You’ve sucked my boobs. I think you can call me Lotta.’

I ignore the invitation. It sounds toomateyfor my liking, and there’s something about saying her full name that gives me a kick.

Instead, I run my knuckles over the skin of her stomach. God, it’s soft. So soft. Up and down I go, and she shivers.

‘Unfinished business,’ I repeat, watching her face.

Her bravado’s gone, and in its place is watchfulness. Need.

‘Mm hmm,’ she agrees, looking dazed. ‘Here?’

I laugh. ‘Nope. Up against a door with Judy on the other side isn’t really my style.’

‘Really?’ She pouts. ‘That’s disappointing. I really thought it would be.’

‘Because that’s what happens in yourbang a builderfantasy?’

‘Basically, yeah,’ she admits with refreshing honesty and a total lack of shame.

Turns out being objectified is absolutely fine with me.

I dip my head so my mouth is inches from hers. ‘I need you in a bed, Carlotta,’ I tell her. ‘Naked. I need hours with you to do all the things I want to do to you.’

Her eyelashes flutter as she skims her gaze back over my pecs again. ‘I can—we can find a bed.’ She sounds breathless. ‘I thought this would be—you’d be, you know—quick and dirty.’ She shakes her head. ‘But, yeah, a bed is good. Great.’

I grin. ‘It won’t be quick, sweetheart. Not at all. But it’ll be very, very dirty.’

* * *

LOTTA

Because Aide is one of those self-controlled sado-masochists, and also, possibly, because he’s a nice guy who knows how to look after his team, he insists on buying everyone an end-of-week drink at the local pub before he and I can abscond for our slow and dirty evening of sin.

‘These are long overdue,’ he says as he hands pints of lager around to Gaz, Frank, Jack and Marc. Sylvie and I have opted for white wine, which seems high-risk in a place like this, and Judy’s on the Bailey’s. Aide requests bags of crisps and dry roasted peanuts, which is great, because I’m starving, and extracts a wad of notes from his wallet before peeling off a few tenners for the server.

I smile to myself. Such a cliché—the builder who gets paid in cash.

We’re all covered in dust and paint and grime, but no one in here seems to care. In fact, no one’s spared us a second glance except for the server, who’s been eye-fucking Aide so hard while she pulled his pints I’m amazed they didn’t all overflow. He seems totally oblivious, though. And I can’t blame the poor woman.

He’s absolute perfection. Standing in this dreary old man’s pub, surrounded by us lot and a load of randoms, he looks like a film star.

Seriously.

He looks like he’s just wandered off the set of those Diet Coke ads Mamma used to love, or like he’s getting ready to do a remake of Die Hard. He just needs a machine gun strapped to his back. Move over, Bruce. This guy hasbroodingaction herowritten all over him. Even filthy and sweaty and exhausted, he exudes this leading-man magnetism that makes my jaw drop and my pantiesthreatento drop and my legs weak.

It’s everything. The beard. The incredible eyes. The mop of dark, sweat-slicked hair. That vest showing off those insane guns.

It’s the way he holds himself. His natural unselfconsciousness, like he has no clue how much he draws the eye.

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