Page 54 of The Risk Taker
“You won’t be climbing into my lap wanting to fuck me again then, will you?”
“You’re deflecting,” I fire back, suspecting he’d try this tactic.
But I was prepared for this. And I’ll push him as hard as necessary to get what I need.
I glare at his broad shoulders.
“You’re still here?” He arches a dark brow at me before tearing the T-shirt off over his head and tossing it on the lounger and swiping up the clean one.
I wait, hoping I’ll see his chest. And the asshole must secretly be unable to resist the stroke to his ego of getting eye-fucked by me, because he turns, giving me a full-frontal chest view, taking his time feeding his arms into the sleeves of his T-shirt.
I zero in on his left pec and the tattoo there. It looks like extra detailing was added to disguise what was originally there. But what I’m searching for isn’t gone, merely camouflaged, like he couldn’t bring himself to cover it up.
The letter B.
Stepping closer, I lift my eyes to his as he pulls the clean T-shirt over his head and yanks it down.
“Went for brown again today, huh?”
His eyes narrow, and he pins me under a dark glare. But I match it, staring back with as much menace.
“Shame. I like the blue. It suits you.”
“What do you want, New York City?” he snipes, leaning closer.
Excitement bubbles in my gut. He’s pissed. It means I’m getting somewhere. I’m right about the contact lenses. And I’d bet anything from his reaction the blue is his real color.
Just like the photo inside Mel’s magazine.
“You call me that like it’s an insult. But I love New York,” I say with mock sweetness.
His jaw tenses like he’s grinding his teeth.
“How did you know that guy was from there?” I ask, feigning innocence so I don’t give my reasons for asking away too early.
“What guy?”
I stare into his brown eyes, searching for a visible edge of a lens as evidence, even though I know I’m right.
“The one you look like.”
He tries to appear clueless, but I catch a flash of something in his eyes before he blinks it away.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grits out.
“Yesterday, at the showers, I told you I’d read an article about a billionaire called Sullivan Beaufort. You look like him. A rougher, less groomed version,” I add with a condescending smile. “And if you had blue eyes, of course.”
His nostrils flare.
“You said you didn’t know who he was. But then you asked if I wanted to fuck or talk about some guy from New York. Only, I never said where he was from. So you lied. You know who he is.”
He puffs out a low breath with an unamused laugh. “So what? You think I’m some secret billionaire from New York who just happens to be here? This isn’t an undercover boss TV show, or some shit like that. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He turns and strides across the sand.
“Why do you have their family crest tattooed on your chest?” I call, my words hitting his back.
He freezes.
