Page 64 of Most Eligible Billionaire

I’m not, but he’s taking off his jacket and putting it over my shoulders now, cocooning my arms, and I like it very much. I like how warm and soft it is. I like how he adjusts it so precisely, like he cares greatly for my comfort.

I tell myself the idea he cares about me is an illusion. Wishful, magical, ridiculous thinking.

Ancient people thought the stars formed pictures of archers and bears and gigantic spoons, but can we be honest for a moment? They’re just stars. They don’t form pictures, no matter how many stupid diagrams you make. Like the stupidest dot-to-dot puzzles ever.

That’s what I’m doing with Henry’s affection. Making pictures that aren’t there. Elaborate diagrams of him wanting me. But it feels so real.

He holds the lapels of the jacket snugly shut, his breath gusting warm on my forehead. “I’m so glad you could see this.”

His tender gaze sizzles over my skin. Like he’s really looking at me. And then he smiles.

His eyes sparkle. Uneven dimples appear. It’s his Henry smile. The real Henry smile.

I reach my hands out from my coat cocoon and grab his soft, warm shirtfront, pulling him to me.

I kiss him.

Boom. He deepens the kiss. My kiss was soft, but his is rough and wild. With his other hand, he cradles my cheek, fingertips trembling with energy where they touch my skin.

“Vicky,” he rumbles. He walks me backward into a massive concrete pillar.

My hard hat falls down over my eyes.

“No, no, no,” he rasps, yanking it clear off my head and tossing it over his shoulder.

Because he wants to see me.

Somewhere behind us there’s asplock, and a softersplockas the hard hat comes to rest. I can barely hear it over the hurricane of my pulse whooshing in my ears.

And I want him so bad, I’m shaking.

He fists my ponytail. My breath hitches as he slides the backs of his fingers up my throat, up to the tender underside of my chin. His touch sears me.

“Henry,” I say, trembling down to my toes.

“I love watching my name on your lips.” His voice is ragged.

Silently, I mouth his name:Henry.And then again, Hen—

He doesn’t let me finish; my lips are still open when he kisses me, a desperate, open-mouthed kiss with the fury of a thousand senselessly whirling stars.

He shoves his hand into my hair, cradling the back of my head, pressing me back against the cool concrete post.

I can feel the shape of him against my belly, huge and hard. I want to wrap myself around him, to dissolve around him. To obliterate myself on him.

His breath is ragged as he bends to get our lips level. I reach behind him, fitting hungry hands around his warm, solid back, digging in with my fingers a little.

He makes a growly sound as he rains kisses over my cheek, my neck, before taking my lips once again.

The cool breeze caresses my exposed legs, but underneath my clothes, sweat trickles down my spine.

The entire building seems to sway in time with my thundering pulse, in time with Henry, pressing himself to me.

Somewhere down on the street, trucks and cars rumble by and honking horns are answered by other honking horns.

He’s still wearing his own hard hat. It’s sexy.

His breath turns erratic as he runs his hands over the sides of my hips, up and down. “You and yourskirts,” he says, like myskirtsare a point of awesomeness.

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