Page 68 of Forbidden Billionaire
“But—”
He draws his eyes together with lethal force. “I want you aware of your nakedness and the fact you’re obeying me and pleasing me.”
That word—obeying—should make me bristle. Instead it lights up something hot and dangerous deep inside me.
What the hell has happened between us in the last twenty-four hours?
He’s made my life even crazier. I’ve always wondered how I’ll survive Blackwell. Now?—
Chapter Sixteen
Seraphina
Now I’m not sure I can survive him.
“Ready to go? I found a place online that looks interesting.”
How does he do that? Switch gears so fast? Once again, his voice is well modulated, making my head spin.
We take the elevator down, nod at the doorman, then step outside. Even at this time of the morning, Houston’s air is already thick and humid, heavy with the promise of afternoon showers.
The sidewalks glisten faintly, the scent of wet concrete still lingering from someone’s sprinkler or an early morning rain.
The neighborhood is alive in that Heights kind of way—eclectic cottages nestled next to modern bungalows, the faint thrum of music escaping an open window, wind chimes dancing on porches painted in bright colors, and a guy on a bicycle riding past with a French bulldog in his basket.
Beside me, Xavier walks with easy confidence, his fingers brushing mine as we fall into step. He seems every bit as at ease here as he is at the Bluewater Bistro or in his boardroom.
Then—God help me—he laces our fingers together, and the casual intimacy of it floors me. His touch is gentle now, a contradiction to the dominance he claimed over me not twenty minutes ago. My skin is still tingling from the relentless way he drove me to a shattering climax.
Every step reminds me I’m not wearing panties. There’s no buffer, no modesty. Just the slick heat between my thighs, the whisper of the sundress against my bare skin, and the knowledge that if I so much as stumble or sit wrong, I’d be showing everything to the early risers.
He grins, a wicked slow burn and male pride. “You like knowing you’re making me happy, don’t you?”
Shockingly I do. Probably more than I should. And the happier he is with me, the more relaxed he seems. The more charming. The more devastating.
“You’re beautiful when you’re compliant.” We stop to wait for the cross signal at an intersection, and he lifts my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss across my knuckles.
I should pull away. But I don’t. My heart squeezes, and my breath catches, and a buried, fragile piece of me starts to unfurl.
The moment we step inside the place he found, I’m hit with a burst of air-conditioning and the scent of bacon, cinnamon, and roasted coffee.
The place is pure Heights—brick walls lined with indie art, plants dangling from ceiling hooks, tables that don’t match, and a chalkboard menu with too many options and cheeky descriptions.
There’s a handmade mosaic over the coffee bar, shaped like the Houston skyline, and behind the counter, a barista with a teal mohawk and a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt nods at us like we’re regulars.
The vibe is loud but not chaotic, music humming from a speaker overhead—something bluesy with a lazy, sexy rhythm that matches the beat of my pulse.
The chalkboard menu boasts things like bourbon-pecan waffles and brisket tacos. And the food that’s coming out of the kitchen looks as if it’s to die for. There’s a tray passing by with what looks like red velvet pancakes stacked high and drizzled in cream cheese glaze, another piled with avocado toast on thick-cut sourdough, sprinkled with goat cheese and pomegranate seeds. A server walks past, carrying cold-brew flights served in small mason jars. This is brunch with a capital B.
Xavier scans the menu with interest, his hand still possessively resting at the small of my back. “You’re getting the brisket tacos.” He murmurs his wishes against my ear. “I want to watch you eat them with your bare hands.”
Heat flushes through me at the way he says it—low, intimate, with just enough gravel to make me squirm.
“I’ll need a fork,” I counter, even though I already know I’ll do exactly what he wants.
He gives me a look that says try me, then glances up at the chalkboard again. “And I’ll take the red velvet pancakes. We’ll share.”
After we order, I pull out my wallet.
