Page 67 of Bride on the Dotted Line

Nick huffs a strained laugh. It sounds almost bitter. “I don’t care about the company.”

My hand stills, eyes flying open to the darkness of my room. “You don’t?”

There’s a silence, like he’s holding back, afraid to say more. But then he says, “I—I did care about my legacy, before. About what’s expected of me. But things have changed. I don’t care about the company, Sienna. I don’t give afuckabout the company.”

“Nick—”

“I care about you.”

I’m speechless. My eyes roam the ceiling, the weight of his words hitting me. “Nick …”

“You’re everything, Sienna.” He’s talking quickly, like he can’t stop himself. “I shouldn’t—but I—I told myself I’d wait. I’ve spent weeks preparing to be a CEO, and all I can think about is you. Giving you what you need to be okay. The contract—mycontract—isn’t about the company anymore. It’s about making sure you’re good, baby.”

My cheeks are scorching, my airway too small to form words.

“And if I do what I’ve wanted to do for weeks … if I come to your room …” Nick’s voice falters. “You don’t get the money. You don’t get your chance at a new life. So … I won’t. Even though—God—I’m barely holding on, and I don’t think I’m strong enough, I won’t.” He sounds like he’s reassuring himself, rather than me.

“Nick,” I whisper. The fingers between my legs are in motion again. If I focus on the ribbons of pleasure growing taut inside me, I don’t have to think about the implications of what he just said. He cares about me. Everything we’ve done together; it’s not about him being CEO, anymore. It’s about me.

I need to tell him. Iwantto tell him. But I can’t—I can’t.

I’m pleading. “Come here.”

“I won’t.”

“Please. No one has to know. It can be our little secret.”

The noise that escapes him is nuclear. “No.”

“Please.”

There’s a sound on his end, his covers rustling. My thoughts stutter—is he getting off his bed? Is he walking down the hall?

He isn’t. He whispers something too low for me to catch, but he doesn’t appear at my door. He doesn’t leave his room. He doesn’t compromise our agreement, putting me back in the place I was when we first met. He just says my name in my ear. Pants. Wants.

I love him.

And for the first time, I think he might have feelings for me, too.

My chest contracts, the pleasure in my center doubling under my hand. Tripling, like my body knew this was going to happen long before my mind. I don’t know how I let this go so far. I don’t know when he slipped past my defenses and carved out a space inside me.

Probably around the time he sat down with me at that bar, made me laugh, made me feel like I wasn’t alone.

“Do you still have my panties?” I ask him.

“Of course I do,” he grits out.

“Pick them up. Wrap them around your hand. Use them.”

His laugh is surrender. “Yeah?”

“Do it for me.”

There’s a swishing sound, something soft sliding against skin, and then a low, guttural groan. “I remember how it felt to touch you,” he rasps. “Jesus, I …”

“Don’t think.” I grind against my hand, my own climax threatening as I circle myself harder, chasing the feeling he’s giving me. “Just feel. I want to hear you.”

Whimpers through the phone, muttered curses, my name breathed on a whisper, a prayer. I tell him how wet I am, how desperate. How I’m close, so close, and all it takes is picturing him above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his mouth crushed against mine.

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