Page 39 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
“He gives me what I want, which is something you might try next time you like a girl.”
“It wasn’t that,” he says, harsh again.
“No?” I step forward and place a hand on his chest, feeling the way his heart beats strong and fast. He may want to be unaffected by me, but he isn’t. I tilt my face up toward him. “You didn’t imagine me naked in the cabin later?”
He sucks in a breath. “You were too young then.”
My words come out as a whisper. “What about now? Will you do what Sutton said—imagine me in this dress when you go home after this?”
“It’s not fucking decent,” he says, even though the silk covers every part of me. It’s a perfectly respectable dress, when it’s not hitched up around my waist.
“You can thank Sutton for this,” I say, because it’s true. He’s the only reason I lean forward and place my lips against Christopher’s, touching them in some terrible attempt to show him what he gave up, to prove to myself that I don’t care about either of them.
Christopher sucks in a breath. For a second I think he’s going to pull away. He stiffens and grasps my hair with his fist. Easy enough for him to stop the kiss. Instead he dips my head back and deepens it, exploring my mouth with his teeth, his tongue. Opening me wider until I whimper. Pulling me close until I can feel how hard he is beneath his slacks.
His other hand fists in the gauze of my dress, and I realize he’s holding me with both hands clenched—one in my hair and one in my clothes. I don’t know whether he’s doing it so he doesn’t have to touch me or because it’s a way to control me without bruising me. He uses both hands to tug me closer; I’m pressed so tightly I can’t imagine getting away.
Where Sutton had been raw sensuality and playfulness, Christopher is pure determination. He kisses me like he’s a conquering army, like I’m made of gold he has to grasp—or lose forever.
I push away from him with a pained cry, because I want to stay in his arms. I want to let Christopher take me to bed and show me how much he can conquer, his way made slick by my arousal for another man. “You should go.”
He pants, his pupils large and dark. “Let me stay. I want to taste you.”
The words are like a cold splash of water on top of my head. Taste me, like Sutton did in the hallway. Taste me after Sutton challenged him that way. Am I only a competition between two business partners, who probably compete over more than women?
This is exactly what I always wanted, having Christopher beg for a night with me. Exactly what I always dreamed, but I can’t trust it. Not when I wanted him to find out about this. Maybe not by walking into the hallway, but I knew he’d eventually find out I kissed Sutton.
Some female part of me knew exactly what I was doing, even if I couldn’t admit it to myself. Now it’s worked, and it’s a hollow victory. Like giving him a love potion and then preening when he falls for me. It isn’t real. None of this is real.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I manage to say. “Bright and early. We can work like people who need money and not from a trust fund. Like people who didn’t almost have sex the night before.”
He flinches, which is what I wanted. For him to feel as cold as I do. “Harper.”
“No,” I cry, losing my tenuous grip on composure. “You had your chance with me. Now you don’t want me to be with someone else?”
“It’s not about that,” he says, but he’s a liar. Like the man on the plane with a secret girlfriend in New York all those years ago. And like Daddy.
That’s what men know how to do: make money and lie to women.
“Get out,” I say, turning away. I’m not even angry with Christopher. I’m mad at myself for letting him in the room. For letting Sutton walk me here. For trusting them even when I don’t have any reason to. Because that’s something women are good at: loving men we shouldn’t.
I open my eyes and stare at the chandelier lit by sunrise, wondering where the hell I am and why I’m awake. Then the hotel room phone rings again. Briefly I fantasize about throwing it across the room. Or maybe attempting to flush it down the toilet.
Instead I answer with a sleepy, “Hello.”
“Mademoiselle St. Claire, this is your requested wake-up call,” says a voice in lightly accented French. It makes me wonder if L’Etoile hired him only for that accent. They do love ambiance. “At six o’clock. Would you like us to send breakfast?”
