Page 15 of Saved By the Billionaire
But I know I won't. Because despite the guilt, despite the self-loathing, despite everything that's wrong about this situation, Iwant her here. Want her safe, protected, close enough that I can make sure Nathan never touches her again.
Even if it destroys me. Even if I have to spend every night like this, hiding in cold showers, hating myself for wanting what I can never have.
Belle Hart is under my protection now, and I'll be damned if I let anyone hurt her again.
Even if the person she most needs protection from is me.
Chapter 5 - Belle
The moment the door clicks shut behind Richard, I collapse back against the pillows and finally, finally, let myself breathe.
Holy shit.
My heart is racing, pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, between my legs, everywhere. My skin feels too tight, too hot, like I'm burning up from the inside out.
Is he blind? Is Richard Kane actually blind, or is he just being polite? Because there's no way he didn't notice what he was doing to me. The way I couldn't quite catch my breath. The way I kept shifting position, pressing my thighs together, trying desperately to ease the ache that's been building since he walked through that door in nothing but pajama pants and a t-shirt.
God, that t-shirt. Worn soft, clinging to his chest and shoulders, riding up slightly when he moved to reveal a strip of toned stomach that a forty-five-year-old man has no business having.
I press my hands to my burning cheeks and resist the urge to scream into a pillow.
This is wrong. So incredibly wrong. Richard is Nathan's father. My ex-almost-father-in-law. A man old enough to be my—no, actually, he's not old enough to be my father, but he's close. Nineteen years older than me. Successful, sophisticated, completely out of my league in every possible way.
And yet here I am, soaked through my underwear, throbbing with need, because he sat in that chair and talked to me like I mattered. Like my thoughts were interesting. Like I was worth staying up until four in the morning for.
I shift slightly and immediately feel how wet I am. Not just damp, but soaked. The fabric of my underwear is clinging to me,probably leaving a wet spot on these expensive sheets that I'll have to somehow explain or hide.
Please God, let him not have noticed.
Although the way he kept that leg crossed, the way he positioned himself in that chair... No. I'm imagining things. Reading into nothing because I'm desperate and touch-starved and haven't felt safe around a man in two years.
Except Richard isn't just any man. He's never been just any man.
I've been half in love with him since that first dinner, when he asked me about my art history classes and actually listened to the answer. When he looked at Nathan with disapproval and at me with something that felt like understanding.
But it's more than that now. More than a crush or infatuation or whatever I've been calling it to make myself feel less guilty. It's deeper, darker, wrapped up in two years of stolen glances and forbidden thoughts and nights spent imagining what it would be like if Richard had met me first.
I should sleep. Need to sleep. My body is exhausted, wrung out from the emotional rollercoaster of running away and traveling here and having a nightmare and—
But I can't. Not like this, wound tight with arousal and need and two years of repressed desire.
My hand moves down my body almost of its own accord, slipping under the waistband of my leggings. I should stop. Should be better than this, should wait until tomorrow when I'm thinking clearly and not half-drunk on Richard Kane's proximity.
But my fingers find the soaked fabric of my underwear and I gasp at the contact, at how sensitive I am. How ready.
I pull the fabric aside and touch myself directly, finding my clit swollen and aching. The first stroke makes my hips jerk off the bed, pleasure so sharp it almost hurts.
Fuck.
When was the last time I did this? Months. At least six months, maybe longer. Nathan didn't like me touching myself, said it was a waste when I should be saving all that energy for him.
Not that he wanted it. Not from me, anyway.
*You barely move,* he'd said once, annoyed, after thirty seconds of perfunctory thrusting. *Like fucking a dead fish. No wonder I'd rather go elsewhere.*
And he did. Fucked other girls: thinner, prettier, more enthusiastic girls, and came home to me when he needed someone to control. Someone to hurt when the rest of his life felt out of control.
I push the thoughts away and focus on my body, on the pleasure building as I circle my clit with increasing pressure. My other hand moves up to palm my breast through the sweater, finding my nipple already hard.
