Page 89 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“You were crying, Arden, and screaming. And there was blood on your back, and you were begging me to stop. And I didn’t.”

“It was a dream,” I said again. “Only a dream.”

His fingers tightened, digging hard enough into the backs of my thighs I was sure he was leaving bruises. “It felt so good.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

He didn’t answer. Just stifled another miserable sound.

“I’m serious. You’d never do something like that in real life.”

“Arden”—he looked up at me with his restless ocean eyes, so full of unfathomed pain—“you have no idea what I’m capable of.”

It was the easiest thing in the world, right then, to hold his gaze. “I know you’d never hurt me in ways I didn’t want to be hurt. I know you’d never break my trust. And I know that, whatever you’ve done or whatever’s been done to you, you’re a good person.”

I could sense the protest gathering inside him. Any second now he was going to say something devastatingly rational about how I couldn’t be sure and then we were going to have a big argument because, on this particular subject, I wasn’t yielding. Not for him. Not for anyone.

But I guess he was still too raw. Because he let me hold him instead. And we stayed there like that for long enough I started to worry about his knees on the marble floor.

When my mum had nightmares we turned on every light in the house. And checked every room. That wouldn’t work for Caspian, though. He had different demons.

Which wasn’t to say they couldn’t be conquered.

I touched his shoulder gently. “Come back to bed.”

“You still want—”

I knew it was rude to interrupt, but sometimes you had to. “More than anything in the world.”

* * *

My body had apparently given up on time zones because when I next woke up it was still far too early, especially for a Saturday. To my slight surprise, Caspian was beside me, as close as he could get without us actually touching.

God, he must have been exhausted because he was out. And, whereas when I was asleep I looked like a concussed bunny, drooling and twitching and snuffling my nose (I knew because Nik had been kind enough to record me), even after last night Caspian looked beautiful. Like he belonged in an arty black ’n’ white photo series.

He was lying on his stomach, head turned to the side, one arm flung across the pillow, the other curled neatly beside him. The covers had slipped down, exposing his shoulders and the long sweep of his spine. And the teeniest hint of buttock curve. His hair was an adorable ruffle across his brow and his eyelashes were infuriating. I mean. . Did he need them that thick and dark and soft? Really? Did he? When the rest of him was so ridiculously exquisite? He could have afforded one less than perfect feature. Except I loved his contrasts: his strength and his secrets, like his lavish eyelashes, his delicate collarbones, and the enticingly tender skin of his flanks.

I stared at him creepily for a while. Partially because I could, and Caspian would never know, but also because my phone was flashing super insistently and I wasn’t ready to face whatever I was being messaged about. Not when I could live in the shadows of Caspian’s far too lovely eyelashes.

Finally, though, I forced myself to get out of bed, creeping into the living area so I wouldn’t disturb Caspian. Strips of pale yellow-gray sunlight fell across my feet, making them look jaundiced. Oh England with your half-arsed summers. I was so happy to be home.

I glanced down at my phone. Holy shit. That was a lot of notifications. Which, once again, I wasn’t conscious of having done anything to inspire. Sighing, I googled Ellery (nothing new), myself (nothing new), and finally yesterday’s event. I was fairly reassured that I had to hunt to find it, but there it was in a particular scurrilous gossip rag: “Keeping It in the Family: Aloof Billionaire Caspian Hart Steals Sister’s Squeeze.” And a fuzzy side-by-side of two mes—one eating strawberries with Ellery, and one holding Caspian’s hand outside the gallery.

So, yeah. That was pretty icky. And typical, honestly, that the public record of Nathaniel’s relationship with Caspian was all glossy couples pics from charity events, whereas I was turning into a tabloid-headline-generating floozy. But, whatever. Being with Caspian probably meant some of this stuff was inevitable. I forwarded the article to Bellerose just in case and turned to my emails.

A few were related to my own writing, one was from Milieu (oooh), the rest were Nik, Sophie, Weird Owen, Professor Standish, Oxford University notifications…oh fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

This could mean only one thing.

My results were out.

I could have put it off. Once upon a time I would have. But not anymore. I had an article coming out in Milieu. A respectable army of Instagram followers. A billionaire lover who fucked me and cherished me, and let me comfort him when he needed it. I’d danced all night at a secret rave in an abandoned building. Flown to Boston to be with a friend. Interviewed Poppy Carrie in a hospital café. Frankly, Oxford could suck my balls.

I dug my password out of the sludge in the bottom of my brain and logged into the student self-service.

And there it was.

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