Page 66 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“Pretty relaxing, huh?” she says. “You should get all the way in.”

“This is good,” I say.

“But the telling of the information,” she says.

“Will occur while you’re in the hot tub,” I say. “Looks like you’re in the hot tub to me.”

Her pout sends a little glow through me, and suddenly the memory of our kiss on the plane is flowing through my mind, through my body. Without even thinking, I brush a droplet off of her shoulder.

Her chest rises minutely, as though to suck in a silent breath. As though my touch affects her that deeply.

The idea of that pleases me way too much.

I touch her chin and nudge her face up to mine. The tiny flecks of gold around her irises have become more intense in the sunlight.

“What?” she asks in a lightly mocking tone.

Before I can think better of it, I lean down and brush a quiet kiss over her lips.

Her gaze falters for just a moment—just a moment—and then her eyes dance, and her brows lift.Aren’t you glad we practiced kissing?That’s what her expression is saying.Didn’t I tell you so?

My eyes fall once again to her lips. I need to kiss her again. What is happening to me? I force myself to release her. I tip my head back and gaze up at the clouds, ignoring the young guns, willing them to leave so that she can tell me what she has to tell me.

The water is a perfect temperature on my shins. I let them float.

“Well,Ithink it’s nice,” she says.

“For a bath.”

The side of my foot accidentally brushes against the silky warmth of her thigh. Energy surges through me at the contact.

I picture sinking into the water. I could sit right next to her and slide my hand up along her smooth thigh, lazily enjoying the feel of her, slippery as silk under the foam. I imagine sliding my hand between her legs—slow enough that she could stop me if she wanted.Wouldshe?

Or would she watch me, still with that mischief in her eyes, playing a game of chicken, wondering if I’d really go there?

Hell yeah, I’d go there. I’d go right there, watching her eyes, her breath, modulating my pressure, my stroke, learning every last one of her preferences and her secrets. It wouldn’t take long—I’m a good observer, and more than that, Tabitha’s expressions are just that obvious.

I’d get her off and replace that mischief in her eyes with pure fucking stars. It would be so wrong. So damn good.

“Excuse me, Mr. O’Rourke,” a male voice says.

I jolt out of my mad reverie and turn my attention to the two young bucks.

“Hi, I’m Michael Washington,” the one says. “I just wanted to tell you, I did my master’s thesis on the quick-turn credit derivatives system you pioneered the year before last. I thought it was genius.”

“It’s not really that unique,” I say.

“But you were the first.” He motions at his friend. “This is Sam Singh. We both graduated Wharton together last year.”

Sam says hi.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Michael continues, “but I wanted to ask you what you make of that last rate change vis-a-vis the OTC market.” He goes on to explain his question in detail. I watch him, pondering. I’m not pondering the question, which is a relatively simple one, but rather, whether a curt answer or a complex answer will get them out of the tub faster. Of course, being an asshole would get them out of the tub fastest, but this isn’t the place. So I go with a complex answer. I take more time than I’d like. Their follow-up questions feel endless.

The sounds from the side of the deck announce a new arrival.

It’s Gail. She pops up the last of the steps and comes to stand over us. “You finally got to pin him down,” she says to Michael, making me extra glad I followed my no-asshole instincts. “Croquet at three, people! I’m recruiting for my team. Who’s in?” She’s inviting all of us, but she’s looking at Tabitha. She wants Tabitha on her team.

Exactly how much did they bond?

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