Page 8 of Forbidden Billionaire
Smart girl. She has no idea the consequences for that kind of disrespect.
Like a flash of lighting, she’s gone, the lock clicking into place behind her.
For a moment, I don’t blink. Don’t move.
The scent of her lingers. The memory of her wraps around me. And my cock throbs painfully.
Removing my cuff links as I go, I return to the bedroom.
After having her there, I despise the sight of my empty bed.
I grin. It won’t stay that way for long. “You called me a fraud once, little troublemaker. But you’ll kneel for every lie. You’re mine, Seraphina. My little troublemaker. Only mine.”
Chapter Two
Seraphina
Gravel crunches under my sneakers as I slam my car door shut in the parking lot that’s behind Poison Girl. Houston’s humidity wraps around me like a second skin I can’t peel off, but I’d rather drown in sweat than ever face Xavier Blackheart again.
Seeing him tonight ripped open wounds I swore were scars.
The bar’s neon signs hum, splashing pink and blue across the live oaks sagging over Montrose Boulevard. A food truck’s barbecue smoke drifts up the block, mixing with the sticky-sweet stench of spilled beer on the patio.
The jukebox inside wails a twangy alt-rock tune. Cicadas buzz, relentless, like the memories careening through my mind.
Before I go in, I check my bank app. $42.47. I sigh. I need gas, so I have just enough for a five-dollar happy hour rosé and a tip. Food can wait until later. As usual.
I tug at the bottom of my faded black tank top, the one I threw on after ripping off that godforsaken maid’s uniform. With my arms bare and my short shorts riding up my thighs, I’m free of that polyester prison. I’d incinerate the ridiculous getup if I could, watching it curl into ash for turning me into Blackheart’s “yes, sir” girl.
Three years ago, I was an MBA star, my spreadsheets slicing through boardrooms like a scalpel. Now I’m scrubbing penthouses for pennies, covering Tina’s shift at the Sterling because she’s down with the flu. And of course I run into him. The man who torched my life.
I thought I’d never see him again, that I’d buried his shadow when the press branded me a traitor. But tonight, in that glass-and-marble penthouse, his gaze pinned me, and his voice was low and terrifying. “Naughty girls get punished.”
At the scorching memory, my tummy plummets, and I’m appalled at the way my body reacts.
Shaking off the all-too real thoughts, I push open the gate to the patio. Right away, Lila spots me and jumps up to wave me over.
Within seconds, I’m seated across the wobbly table from her.
She’s already down to half a glass of the cheap wine we both drink. I know she can afford something much better, and she generally goes to much nicer happy hour spots. But she’s a good friend for meeting me here.
“So what’s going on?” she demands before I can even shove my phone into my back pocket. “Your text said you had a hell of a day.”
“You can’t even begin to imagine.”
“Some rockstar trash a suite?”
“Worse.” I slump against the back of the chair, and one of my sneakers has already stuck to a beer-slick wooden plank.
“A double shift?”
“That caused part of the problem.” Exhaustion is my greatest enemy.
She leans forward. “So tell me.”
A server swings by, tattoos covering every bare inch of her body. She looks harassed and bored at the same time. “What are you drinking?”
“The happy hour rosé.”
