Page 38 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

I clutch my phone. It’s the newest iPhone. Fast. Powerful. Precision engineered by the best tech minds in the world.

Utterly useless.

Call ended.

God, is she calling other people now? Talking to them the way she talks to me?

Don’t. You can’t.

My mind races with visions of hunting her down. Pressing her to the wall, whispering in her ear, making it all right again. I’d taste her lips and make her never want to call anybody but me.

I need her all to myself. Completely to myself.

It’s insane, the thoughts I have about her. I’m a chemist, not a caveman. And she’s just a wake-up-call girl.

And the only thing I want.

The thought stuns me. I have no idea what this woman looks like or what she’s into or how old she is. She’s the only thing I want.

There’s a lifesaving clotting gel I’m supposedly in a race to develop, but it’s the furthest thing from my mind.

I could call back, but she won’t pick up. I may not know anything about her on a surface level, but I have a sense of what she’s made of. I know how she’ll react to things.

The knowledge that I have of her feels intuitive. Primal.

I walk to my window, stare down at the lights that dot the pathways of Central Park. Like looping dot-to-dots in a sea of darkness, framed by the relentless glow of Manhattan.

According to caller ID, she’s in New York City. She’s a cab ride away, somewhere out there in the crowds of people marching up and down the city streets, streaming in and out of the subway, lining up for shows, elbowing her way through the produce section at the corner store.

And my need to find her blazes wild as the sun.

Twelve

Lizzie

I liein my bed with weird energy bouncing all through me. I’m hugely turned on, and even more upset and surprised.

What am I doing taking up with somebody like Mr. Drummond? Wasn’t it enough to lose myself to one control freak of a man?

You’ll let me take what I want.

Screw that!

I pull my robe on and shiver to the bathroom. Feel annoyed at Mia leaving a towel on the floor and all her hair stuff on my side of the counter.

The annoyance is enough to momentarily blot out the memory of Mr. Drummond’s rumbly, sexy tenor, still vibrating through me. The way he was just so assholey, but hot and stern.

“Whatever, dude,” I say aloud, arranging Mia’s leave-in conditioner and hair oil on her side of the sink counter.

Because seriously? He gets to have his empire and entire company and crazy millions and everybody bowing and scraping in front of him. And his asshole leadership techniques that make life for each and every one of his minions utterly unpleasant. But he doesn’t get to have me.

No, I will not let youtake what you want!

Mr. Drummond is seriously the jackass of the century—that’s the thought that is running through my head. But it’s not like a normal thought. It’s more like a fiery comet, zipping around inside me. And I want to go tell him. I want to claw at his handsome face and perfectly tailored everything with pretty red fingernails between hot, dirty kisses. I don’t actually have pretty red fingernails, and I don’t want to hurt him, but that’s the unruly image that’s currently invading my mind.

I get into the tiny shower and scrub my hair really well. I double rinse it. I soap myself up, refusing to imagine him ripping off my pajamas, desperate to get to my pussy.

If I were there, I could get you off with one touch.

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