Page 23 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
Her lips firm. She knits her fingers together in her lap, clearly trying to control herself from saying something she might regret.
Question is, why am I not able to control myself when it's about her?
I survey her features again. Taking in the bright look in her eyes, her enthusiasm writ in every angle of her body, the way her chest heaves, the tension that skitters off of her, for a second, I feel my age. Hell, I am only a decade older than her, if that, but the experience I have packed into that time has clearly made me into a cynic. Not that I’ll admit to that. Ever.
"So, you think you can flounce in and tell us that our reputation sucks, that our confidential information has been leaked, and that you know better than us how we should be planning forward?"
She blinks, shuffles her feet. "Umm." The pulse flutters at her throat and I can’t look away. It hints at her vulnerability, how tense she is… how nervous she’s been throughout, really.
Guess not everyone has been fortunate to be blessed with a fighting spirit such as mine, huh?
"How desperate are you to win this account?"
She stiffens.
"It's clear that you’re not the best agency in the market. I mean, your ideas are hardly original."
She curls her fingers at her sides. "It's as original as... as your beard."
"Is that a joke?" I lower my brows.
"What do you think?"
"I think..." I stroke my chin, "that you like how I wear it."
"I hate it."
"Good." I knock my knuckles on the table. "I'll keep it."
She shoots me a look that is so hate-filled, that I chuckle.
"It’s not funny." She makes that sound—the one between anger and frustration, that I heard yesterday—deep in her throat.
My dick twitches.
How would she sound under me? When I am balls deep inside her melting pussy, while squeezing her beautiful tits? My groin hardens. Fuck. Get your head in the game.
I thrust out my chest, "It is from where I am."
"Have you always been such an arrogant prick?"
"Watch it, now." I glare at her. "Your idle prattle has ceased to amuse me."
"You know what’s really not amusing?" She moves forward to stand in front of the table, then slaps her hand on the table, "That I let myself be subjected to the toxicity of your presence. "
Our height difference is such that even with my being seated, she has to tilt her head back to peer into my face. She really is petite, and exquisite. Made to be broken, to be put on a shelf and taken care of, then taken down on occasion, to be admired.
It’s a compulsion of mine. To collect objects that elicit extreme emotions, which I admit is something that doesn’t happen often with me.
That’s no explanation for what I do next.
I tap my fingertips together, "So how are you going to put up with shadowing me for a week?"
