Page 153 of The Boss Situation

“Because you’d never workwithme,” I explain.

“You know me too well and used it to your advantage, knowing I’d work against you.”

Billie shakes her head, staring at me, and the awkward silence draws on.

“What happens after phase three? You move on and find anotherprojectto complete?”

“Absolutely not,” I say, understanding she’s hurt and upset. “You can’t begin to understand how much you mean to me, how much you’ve always meant to me. I would burn the world to ash for you without apology—because the glass slipper only fits one princess. And that’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you, Billie. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I hope, one day, you’ll forgive me.”

She stands there like a fucking goddess in a baggy hoodie that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her collarbone, and a pair of sweatpants that clings to her hips like they’re begging to be ripped off. Her hair’s a wild mess, her lips—damn, her pouty lips—are slightly parted, like she’s contemplating telling me to fuck off.

“Hmm,” she says ruthlessly, but I see a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “I think you should beg. On your knees.”

32

BILLIE

Asher strides forward like a Greek god in a dress shirt that clings to him in all the right places.

He closes the distance between us and drops to his knees before me. I look down into his golden-brown eyes, taking in the shimmering flecks at this angle. When our gazes lock, my body temperature increases.

“Is this what you want, princess? Me on my knees, begging for you, just like this?” His voice is a deep rumble in the back of his throat.

The raw need in his eyes is almost enough to make me forgive him.

The air is thick with tension, unspoken words, and emotions that I haven’t fully processed yet. Time is what I need. But I also need Asher Banks.

His fingers trail up my thighs, making my skin prickle and making my breath hitch. We hold a silent conversation, but it’s so fucking loud.

“Pretty, pretty please forgive me,” he pleads, and it nearly undoes me. His face is a mess of regret and hunger, and I can see the way his cock is already straining against his pants, begging tobe let out and put to work. “Please,” he rasps, his voice rough. “Let me make it up to you, princess.”

“Seems like you have thirteen years’ worth of making up to do,” I say.

His strong hands push up the soft fabric of my hoodie, and he leans forward, placing his warm lips on my stomach. I shiver, unable to stop him, wanting him to worship me as he grovels.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispers, his breath hot against my skin. “Anything you want.”

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it, but really, I’m just savoring his desperate touch.

“Continue,” I say, fully aware that I’m no longer playing defense with him. If this were still a game, it’d be one I was winning.

“Fuck,” Asher groans low in his throat, holding me like I might disappear. “You’re a dream.”

My nipples are hard—because of him, because of this fucking tension, because I can feel his eyes on me, like he’s already undressing me with his mind.

“Please,” he mutters against my pussy, kneeling in front of me.

His hands move to my thighs, gripping me like I’m his anchor, his lifeline, his fucking salvation. And Iwantto be. His head is bowed, but I can see the tension in his jaw. The button-up shirt is rolled to his elbows, showing off those forearms that make me want to scream.

I drink in every inch of him, still upset that he didn’t tell me, but I understand why. Asher never got the real me, not until recently. My life has been a whirlwind since the moment he kissed me at Weston’s, and we’ve barely had time to slow down.

“I fucked up,” he grovels, his voice a sexy rasp. “I know I fucked up. But you know you’re mine, don’t you?”

His hands slowly slide up my thighs like he’s memorizing every inch of me, like this may be his last chance to ever touch me again. His fingers brush against my bare skin, sending shivers down my spine. The other hand grips my hip, his fingers digging in just enoughto make me gasp. His breath is warm against my stomach, and I can feel his lips hovering over my skin—so close, but not close enough.

“Do you hear me?” he demands, his voice like a fucking command. “I’ll make it right. I’m going to make you feel so fucking good that you’ll forget youeverhated me.”

His mouth finds my skin then, hot and wet and hungry. He kisses my stomach, his tongue darting out to taste me, and I swear I can feel it down to my clit. His hands are everywhere—my hips, my ass, my thighs—touching me like he’s branding me as his.

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