Page 12 of His for Christmas
I raised my chin. “I won’t change my mind.”
“My father was Benedict James.” He seemed to be waiting for a sign of recognition.
I shrugged helplessly. The name meant nothing to me.
“He was a serial murderer.” He looked down. When he met my gaze, his dark eyes were filled with pain. “And a serial rapist. He raped and murdered seven women that they know about. Because they found the bodies.”
Shock stole the air from the room. “That’s horrible.”
His expression was stark. And etched into him.
“There was one other woman, except she survived. She managed to escape his cabin and get to the road. She got herself free.”
My stomach dropped. I knew where this was going. He’d already told me how the story ended—with him sitting in front of me, hating himself. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
I wasn’t sure he could hear me. “Not completely free, though. Turned out she was pregnant. She decided to keep the child. I’m not sure why. Back then abortion wasn’t as accepted or available. And adoption…well, for whatever reason, she kept me.”
“She loved you,” I whispered.
His gaze met hers. “Did she? I suppose so. She tried to raise me right. To understand the difference between right and wrong.”
“You do understand, Mr. Thompson. The fact that you’re worried about me proves that much.”
His eyes seemed to burn. “She gave me her last name and left the line on the birth certificate blank, so the press never found out. And I’ve tried to keep myself away. To keep myself locked up. In this office, in my penthouse. Away from people I could hurt.”
Oh God. “You didn’t hurt me.”
He’d touched me. He’d made me come. But he hadn’t hurt me. He also hadn’t done anything for himself, stopping before he could get off, stopping before he knew he’d made a mistake with me.
He cleared his throat. “I use the service when I need it. To keep myself in check.”
I laid a hand on his arm then. I couldn’t stop myself, even knowing I might get burned. Almost wanting it. “You don’t have to do that. You’re a regular man, capable of… doing regular things.”
Regular sex. Regular relationships. And I almost laughed at myself for the sad spark of hope deep inside, as if he might have regular sex with me. A regular relationship. With me.
He shook his head, gaze locked on mine. “Maybe this is all I have time for.”
If that were true, if he really preferred this, then he wouldn’t feel the need to justify it. And he certainly wouldn’t make the appointments so spread out that he was dying to be with a woman, so hungry for one that he didn’t even notice she was wearing the most old, threadbare clothing. Like I had been.
“I don’t think so.” I had no right to tell him anything, but the tortured look in his eyes wouldn’t let me stay quiet. I raised my chin, stubborn. I could be stubborn when it mattered. He mattered. “I think you want more. And you deserve more.”
A curious light passed through his eyes. No, curious was too benign a word. This look was determined. This was the way he might look at an opponent across the boardroom, digging deeper and deeper until he’d found their weakest spot. “Why are you so understanding of this? I think most women would have reported me. Or at least quit.”
“I don’t know if that’s true. I’m not that special.” Ignoring his doubtful look, I continued. “But I know what it’s like to have people make you feel bad for things that are true—and things that aren’t.”
He looked almost amused. “No one’s trying to make me feel bad, Angel.”
He didn’t seem to notice the slip of my real name. “You’re trying to make yourself feel bad, Mr. Thompson. But the thing is, I’m not going to let you.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. “Nothing special. Is that right?”
My cheeks heated. “That’s right,” I said, pretending like I had no idea what he was talking about. It wasn’t hard to pretend. Often enough I didn’t know what people were talking about.
“I think I’m not the only one trying to make myself feel bad,” he murmured.
I thought in that moment that he saw me better than anyone ever had. That he wanted to see me more than anyone ever had. His head bent toward me… He’s going to kiss me.
He didn’t kiss me.
He licked my lips instead. I parted them on a gasp, and he bit my bottom lip, tugging it and worrying it between his teeth. Then he slipped his tongue into my mouth, sliding it against mine.
It was a kiss, the most carnal kiss I’d ever gotten. Like animals mating. And I realized that the nickname Big Bad Billionaire must have been given by someone who had met him, maybe even by someone who had been fucked by him, because it completely applied to this. He was a wolf. He’d hunted me, he’d taken me down. And now he devoured me.
