Page 60 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

“Last time was...” he begins.

“Efficient?” I offer.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Clinical.”

“The clause specified your release. I delivered.” I lift my chin slightly. “Problem?”

He moves closer, his presence suddenly filling the room. “I want more this time.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the heat unfurling in my stomach. “The contract only stipulatesyourrelease. It doesn’t specify how or... what else happens.”

“True.” He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell that earthy cologne of his, and it makes my knees embarrassingly weak. “But I want to fuck you.”

The crude directness sends a jolt through me.

Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t... damn it.

“The contract—”

“I know what the contract says.” His voice is tight, controlled. “I wrote it.”

“Then you know I’m only obligated to get you off. Not to have sex with you.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Frustration, maybe. Or challenge.

“You don’t want me to fuck you?” He asks it like it’s the most ridiculous concept in the world.

Yes. No. Maybe. God, I don’t know.

“This isn’t about what I want,” I say carefully. “It’s about the terms we agreed to.”

“And if I want to renegotiate those terms? Right now?”

I take a deep breath. “You can’t just change the rules whenever you feel like.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s not how the world works,” I argue. “Someday, you’ll learn that money can’t buy everything.”

His voice softens. “But I’m not changing the rules. I’masking.”

That throws me off balance. Dominic Rossi doesn’t ask. He demands, he expects, he orders.

“Why?” I counter, my heart pounding louder than ever. “Last time seemed to satisfy the clause just fine.”

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as his tell when he’s frustrated. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, all right? About you.”

My heart stutters. “We said this was just business.”

“It is.” He steps closer. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be mutually beneficial.”

“The answer is no.”

I don’t give myself time to think, to second-guess. Nor do I give him time to argue again. Instead, I reach for him, and my hands find his belt, unfastening it with deliberate slowness. This isn’t like last time. You know, efficient, mechanical. This time, I intend to prove something, though I’m not entirely sure what.

When my fingers brush against him through his jeans, he groans softly. The sound sends a rush of heat between my legs.

Ignore it. Ignore it.

---