Page 88 of Railing the Billionaire

The only reason I’d survived the meal was because of Layana and her game. I’d thank her by getting her safely to our room, and keeping my distance so we didn’t end up doing something both of us would regret.

We grabbed our coats. I held onto her in the elevator. She leaned into me.

On our floor we clumsily made it to our room, opened the door, and snapped it shut behind us.

Layana bent down to the floor and undid one of my boots. She tried to do the second and laughed as her fingers fumbled. My head was spinning. I tossed our coats at the rack. They missed and landed on the floor, but it didn’t matter.

Layana tried to stand, but she began to fall. She grabbed onto my legs.

With my head spinning, I was liable to fall on top of her. I squatted and tried to sit but toppled the rest of the way.

She laughed, her face turning redder. “I can’t shoes.”

Grinning despite myself, I tried to force my gaze from hers, tried to focus on unclasping my boot. My fingers didn’t follow my mental instructions.

“It’s stuck,” I said. “I’ll have to wear it forever.”

She laughed and set one of her feet in my lap. “Do me.”

Her words echoed in my head, funny because she had no idea how much I wanted to follow that instruction right now. There were a thousand reasons not to touch her, not to kiss her, not to live this moment only for the now. But I couldn’t remember a single one.

With concentrated effort, I focused on the task she’d given me—all she wanted was for me to help her with the clasps. I could do that. Maybe. Probably not.

Actually, I got it. I slipped her boot off, and realized my hand was on her calf. She had strong, curvy legs. She was strong, period.

“I’m in awe of the way you handle people,” I told her. “Navigating social situations like there’s nothing to them. But I don’t understand it. And it makes me crazy that you disregard the stakes.”

“Stakes shmakes.” She grinned at me.

“It’s like watching a master of zui quan.”

“What’s that?” She pulled her leg under her and crawled closer to me.

“Drunken Fist, a martial art with a loose style that appears like the person has no idea what they’re doing, like they’re drunk and lucky in their hits.”

“But they’re great at kicking ass? Like Jar Jar. He was the ultimate supervillain pretending to be a bumbling idiot. That’s how you see me?” She climbed up onto my lap, her legs straddling mine. Her blue eyes were no longer soft, but raging.

I could feel the heat of her all over me, feel the softness of her body pressed against my chest, my hips, her hands gripping my shoulders.

I tried to swallow it away, tried to focus on keeping my hands to myself and forming words. “I didn’t say you were an idiot.”

“But you think that, because you’re a genius.”

I would never think that she was an idiot. She was smart in every way I wasn’t. “I was trying to compliment you.”

“Don’t. You’re terrible at it. You probably shouldn’t speak at all, since that’s the one thing you’re bad at.”

That struck a nerve. “I’m perfectly capable of civilized speech with anyone who is not you.”

“You’retoocivilized. That’s the problem.”

“You’re too spontaneous,” I snapped back. “It’s reckless.”

“Maybe if you let loose a little, you’d actually have fun, you grumpy, stuck up?—”

She wanted spontaneous, I’d give her spontaneous. I grabbed her face and stole her words with my lips. Our mouths crashed.

The sound she made was ferocious, a rabid beast lashing out. She clawed at my shirt, tearing it up over my head, ripping buttons and catching skin with her nails.

---