Page 22 of The Billionaire’s Fake Fiancée
Our eyes meet for a second. Then he's drinking, tilting back the glass. He knocks back the drink, before I've even started on my second whiskey.
So, that's how it's going to be then? He wants to get drunk tonight. To numb the emotions he's feeling about the man outside.
I'd love to get drunk too. It's one way to forget how I came to be here, seated next to a man who has me at his beck and call for the next week. A man I find so attractive, and yet must resist.
If I sleep with him, I'll lose my own sense of self-worth.
I'm also aware that one of us needs to be sober here. Especially since it's technically 'meet the in-laws time' for me.
Changing my mind, I leave my drink untouched.
I am not sure what to say to him, though. I don’t understand this strange, lost, almost vulnerable feeling vibrating off him. Almost as if he's half here and half not. As if he's reeling from shock. So, instead, I do something that surprises even me: I lace my fingers through his.
There's no reaction. He's silent.
Still.
And then he exhales in a quiet whoosh and grips my hand. Squeezing my palm, tangling his fingers through mine. I don't dare look up at him, don't want to see the expression on his face.
I sense he's not looking at me, either.
The bartender refills his glass.
His fingers tighten on mine. Without letting go of me, he uses his free hand to lift the refilled glass.
I'm sitting close enough to hear him gulp, sense the whiskey burn its way down his throat.
He shudders. "Thanks." His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat.
"For what?" I look up and meet his eyes.
Lose myself in those silver-green depths.
Oh. My.
His gaze slide down my bare neck, and then farther down to where my dress stretches across my hips. I know the exact moment he sees the slit, showing most of my right thigh, for his jaw hardens. His gaze veers back up, tracing the plunging neckline.
Goosebumps on my forearms, and I try to pull my hand out of his grip to cover myself, but I can't.
His eyes lock with mine, that silver-green otherworldly fire sparking in them. He leans closer, so the side of his leg slides up against my thigh—the clothed one—and I gasp.
"What the hell are you wearing?" His voice is low, but firmer than a second ago.
He's angry. And that confuses me. The look in his eyes is so predatory, I shiver at the intent I read in them. When his palm squeezes mine, in a possessive gesture, pain shoots up my arm. I wince.
He still doesn't let go. Just stares at my lips.
He wants to kiss me.
Kiss me.
A strong curl of desire wells up inside. Rising, filling me. Overflowing till I'm sure it's bleeding from my fingertips into him.
Then, in a move that takes me by surprise, he raises his glass and touches the ice-cold surface to my neck.
I shiver.
His eyes are half closed. He knows that the contrast between the cold of the glass and the heat inside me is erotic.
