Page 22 of The English Billionaire's Obsession

“No, because I can read you.”

“You can’t.”

He grins. “I can. You’re acting all tough and cheeky, but the truth is, you want to be here. The truth is, you trust me.”

“I don’t know you.”

He takes me by the shoulders and leans down. I tell myself to turn my face again so that his lips make contact with my cheek, not my mouth, but the desire for intimacy is too strong. It’s not even a desire, more like a compulsion, an instinct I can’t quite explain. He kisses me with surprising gentleness, then breaks it off, staring directly into my eyes.

“Tell me there isn’t a connection here. Tell me you can’t feel it. Tell me I’m mad.”

“Angry?”

He grins. “Mad, British mad. Insane.”

“Maybe thereissomething here,” I whisper, “but how can it grow if you won’t tell me what’s going on?”

For a second, I think his resolve might break, but then he steps back and turns away.

“I know you’ll do the right thing. If you think about doing something silly, like using that ridiculouskidnappingword again, just ask yourself,Does Thomas want the best for me?”

With that, he leaves, his shoulders broad, his taut back muscles pressing through his running T-shirt. When I hear the door close, I drop onto the couch and clasp my hands together as though praying. He didn’t take my cell phone, so I could easily call somebody, Emma or Mom or Dad. Ishouldcall somebody, but when he said I trusted him, miraculously, absurdly, he was right. It’s insane,British mad, that I would feel anything about this man other than suspicion. Somehow, though, I know he wants the best for me.

I lie on the couch, close my eyes, and relive my first orgasm. It was so much more intense than I ever dreamed, his hands stroking obsessively, the pleasure pulsing. Even the stinging of my rear end adds to the memory. I never knew I’d like to be spanked, but heck, it’s not like I’ve got any frame of reference.

After a while, I go to my suitcase and take out my art supplies. Sitting at the small table next to the large window overlooking the city of London, I sketch a wolf, far bigger than anyrealwolf. He’s got wild silver fur and volcanic fierceness in his eyes, savage claws, and sharp teeth. Next to it, I writeThomas. That’s how I see him, my giant protective wolf, my man.

I can’t believe he tried to usemoneyas an excuse to keep me in the dark. He said I only wanted to know why he kidnapped me so I could extract cash from him. The questions won’t stop bouncing around my head. Before the graffiti, before anything, he was there. He was watching me. It’s like he wanted me even before my flight took off from the East Coast, but how?

Later, I go into the kitchen and find the cupboards and the refrigerator empty. A note’s on the fridge,call for supplies, with a cell phone number attached. A British woman answers when I call the number.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I was wondering if I could get some groceries?”

“Of course, ma’am,” she replies. “Do you have a list? We can get anything you’d like.”

Okay, this is all just plain craziness, but I must admit, it’s pretty neat too.

CHAPTERELEVEN

Thomas

“Jesus, Tommy,” George says, tossing a tennis ball from hand to hand as he leans back in his office chair. “That’s quite the story.”

I pace up and down in front of his desk. I feel like Loki when he hasn’t played fetch in a few days, which is rare—full of frantic energy with nowhere to go.

“So this Oliver, who is he, exactly?”

I knew George and Oliver around the same time, but they never met each other. George doesn’t know what happened: the gunshots, the guilt, the regret, the wish for it all to fade away.

“Someone from my past. Blames me for a fuckup.”

George leans forward, clearly wanting to know more, but when I don’t offer anything, he doesn’t ask. We’ve been friends long enough for him to know when I’m going to share something and when I’m not.

“All right, and you haven’t told Amelia about your crush?”

I turn to him quickly, suddenly filled with savage intent. My heart is pounding. My temples pulse.

“It’s not acrush,” I growl. “It’s more than that. She belongs to me, George. I don’t care how mad it sounds.”

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