Page 89 of Return Billionaire to Sender

I clutch it, pinned by his gaze, breath speeding.

“You have to take it back,” I whisper, even as I clutch it.

Again he takes it from me, and this time he puts it over my head, drapes it over my shoulder, cross-wise. “Is that the way a letter carrier would wear it?”

I switch sides so that it hangs over my left hip and turn to the mirror. “Like this when you’re right-handed.” I pantomime extracting a letter.

In the mirror I watch him come to me. My skin is all hungry fire, craving for him to touch me. And then he settles his heavy hands over my shoulders, holding my shoulders as if to fix me in place. Our eyes meet in the mirror in front of us.

I’m struck by how much larger he is than me, easily a head larger, and so much more dramatic. I’m pale pastels and he’s a photograph with the black-and-white contrast pumped up, hair sooty, whiskers thick as night. My pulse whirs as he lowers his chin to my shoulder, sets it there, still holding me, two faces side by side.

The feel of being held in place by him is confusingly thrilling. I’m a fragile bird in a giant’s grip, and I just want to stay—I want to forget my troubles and be held.

“What are you doing?” I hear myself ask.

“This.” Rough whiskers nuzzle against my ear, sending a delicious shudder through me. He kisses my cheek, a brush of a kiss, light as feathers.

I’m breathing hard, possibly even panting. It’s possible that I might melt from the pleasure of just that kiss. “It’s improper to accept a gift like this.”

“So improper.” He kisses my neck, sending another shudder of pleasure through me. “Am I going to have to complain to your home office?” he rumbles.

Alarm shoots through me. “No,” I say, maybe too quickly.

He kisses me again.

“You just can’t be giving me gifts,” I say.

“Or what?” Another kiss. “Or what will my little country mouse do?” His question is a warm fingertip tracing tender skin.

“You just can’t, is all. It’s inappropriate.”

He slides my collar aside, baring a new patch of skin. He presses a warm kiss there. “Inappropriate like this?” he asks.

“Like that,” I mouth, barely a whisper. “Yes.”

He slides more of my shirt aside, claiming a bit more of my shoulder with his lips. Warmth flows over me every time he presses his lips to my skin. I feel wild and unhinged. I have this vision of pulling him to the bed, which would be so unlike me. But I want the bag. I want another croissant. I want him.

Completely and utterly want him.

I want to have sex with the man who is going to destroy our homes.

What is happening to me?

He kisses another part of my shoulder. “Like this?” he asks, voice thick.

“We shouldn’t,” I gasp.

“Probably not,” he says, planting another whiskery warm kiss. “Like this?”

“Like that,” I gasp. Men never make me lose my good sense. I’m the most practical woman in the world. But now I feel wild, and 341 West 45thStreet feels worlds away.

“What happens if you take more than your share?” Warm, rough lips brush a kiss over my neck. “What if you take too many croissants? Too many bags? Too much pleasure?” He slides his hands down over my hips. “Does the world end? Does it all come crashing down?”

I swallow. “I think you’re trying to tempt me,” I say.

His laugh is a baritone rumble against my neck. “What would make you say that?”

I fix him with my sly gaze—it’s the gaze I imagine an elegant, confident woman would have. An arch gaze. Very un-countrymouse. Very unlike me.

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