Page 71 of The Reluctant Billionaire

If Lotta is the kind of woman it’s impossible to look away from at the best of times, then being the one she allows to see her come undone feels like an unfathomable privilege.

This time, I wedged a pillow under her arse and stayed above her, powering into her till I thought I’d go mad from the desire. But holding off was worth it, because seeinghercome undone as I kissed her felt like a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth.

Now I drink her in as she brushes her knuckles down the cleft between my pecs.

She’s loose too. Relaxed. Her face is soft, those huge eyes limpid with fatigue and, I hope, satisfaction. Her hair is less immaculate than usual, thanks to our swim and, I hope, my manhandling of her. It makes her look younger. Less the worldly businesswoman she usually is.

Much as that version of her captivates me, this one entrances me just as much in ways that, frankly, scare me. Because when it’s like this, just the two of us in a bed, every last difference between us seems stripped away and all that remains is her and me, laid bare for each other.

And the problem withthat, the reason it’s dangerous, is that then I forget exactly why she’s not the type of woman I can or should or will go for, my heart focusing instead on all the ways in which she’s perfect for me.

This, therefore, seems like the appropriate moment to remind myself that it’s not my heart doing any of the focusing.

Nope.

When my heart gets involved, it’s because those kids from the centre aren’t going to get fed tonight, or because Sylvie’s slaved away long enough in sub-par conditions and deserves a new kitchen, or my oldest and most extroverted friend is lonely as fuck driving those heavy goods vehicles day in, day out and could benefit from being included in a project.

Those are all excellent examples of me thinking with my heart.

Right now, I’m thinking with my dick. With my monkey brain that’s so orgasm-addled it can’t think straight. Lotta has dazzled me and the others from the get-go.

That’s what she does.

She waltzes in and blinds us all with the force of her beauty, and glamour, and fucking relentless good-naturedness, and her seeming and, honestly, irritating ability to see only the positives in life. It’s an ability that’s only possible for someone who’s never been disappointed. She is a wonderful, impressive, successful product of the privileged bubble she’s been raised in, and none of us stands a chance against it.

Against her.

If Gaz and the guys knew about me and her they’d have a field day. Sure, Gaz is smitten in a boyish-crush kind of way. He’d be tickled as fuck if he knew I was messing around with Lotts.

But come on.

I’ve already done enough. Moved on while trying to keep everything that makes me me intact. Tried to always remember my roots. And for the most part, I’ve been semi-successful, except that I’ll never again know financial worries. Even that feels like a betrayal of my family and friends. Of the community and culture and values and moral codes I was brought up with. That form the backbone of who I am.

Lotta’s hand twists between my pecs, her fingertips running higher until she’s holding my crucifix.

‘Tell me about the cross,’ she whispers. Her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheekbones, and for a moment I’m transfixed.

‘It’s a Celtic cross. Mum bought it for me when I was christened. They’d been on a pilgrimage up to Holy Island—Lindisfarne, up in Northumberland—just before they conceived me, and Mum’s always been convinced that’s why I came along. They were having problems getting pregnant before that. Anyway, they named me after St Aidan and St Cuthbert, who were the two early Christian saints who made the island famous.’

Her face opens up like she’s just had a revelation. ‘Ahh. I wondered why your middle name was Cuthbert?’

‘How’d you know that?’ I ask, and she looks shifty.

‘Wikipedia, I think.’

I laugh and slide my hand up the smooth arc of her spine. ‘Stalker.’

‘When people lie to you about who they are,Aidan,’ she retorts, ‘you have to take matters into your own hands.’

We lie there, grinning at each other like idiots.

‘So, all this roots stuff is important to you.’ It’s not a question.

‘Suppose so.’ I pause. I’ve over-thought this topic so much in the past decade, as I’ve been on my crazy journey, but it’s hard, and sometimes painful, to articulate it. ‘I think roots are important for all of us as human beings—we latch onto them. But I also think when you have very little, maybe you make them a bit too important.’

‘How do you mean?’ she asks, shifting closer and releasing my cross. Her hand drifts over my shoulder and down my arm, and I like how good her easy touch makes me feel. How safe.

‘Well, take our family. We had no fucking money. Nor did any of our neighbours. So you cling onto other stuff. Tradition. Cultural identity—Mum was second generation Irish and Dad was first generation. He moved over as soon as they let him leave school. I dunno. Religion. That played far too big a part in our lives for our liking.

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