Page 49 of The Billionaire’s Fake Fiancée
He lifts me up suddenly, and I cling to him, my legs wrapped around his waist, my arms around his neck. Without preamble, he slides his finger into me and I cry out against his throat.
Panic overwhelms me.
The steam in that small enclosed space is pressing in on me, forcing me further toward him. Heat from the shower, radiating off his body, from my skin. I can feel every inch of his body, as if all my nerve endings have woken up.
When he slides a second finger into me, I gasp. But I don't want to do this. Don't want to make love. Not yet.
Swearing aloud, half aroused, half mad and with a sinking feeling of helplessness that threatens to suffocate me completely, I push against him. Feel the shock ripple down his back as he loosens his arms.
My feet hit the floor with a thud.
"What?" He looks at me, eyes still clouded with desire, his arms coming to rest on my waist, holding me up so I don’t slip.
The touch of his fingers on my skin once more sets my nerve cells vibrating. My eyes slide a path down his chest, following the water over his nipples, over his flat stomach toward where he's still fully aroused.
I want to ask him to leave, but can't seem to form the words. Still, my emotional struggle must have shown, for he takes his hands off me.
I brush past him, dripping water onto the bathroom floor.
23
Sienna
* * *
Slipping into my bathrobe, I wrap another towel around my wet hair with clumsy hands.
I can't trust myself to be in the same room as him right now. I walk out of my bedroom into the shared living room space.
By the time he follows me out, I'm standing in the center of the room, fingers clasped together in front of me.
Towel stretched around his hips, he stands at the door to my room, arms akimbo. He doesn't move closer and for that I am grateful.
If he touches me now, I'll give in.
And I don't want to.
Not yet.
Not when I feel as I do for him. If I sleep with him now, I'll never get over him.
I don't dare meet his eyes. Don't need to. He's livid. And still aroused.
"What was that?" he asks, his voice low and controlled. When I don't look at him, he asks again, this time the anger evident, "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to play this game of guessing how I've hurt your feelings?"
The tone in his voice says he's seen this before, done this with other women. Had the same conversation with them, and that makes me angry.
"Don't do that," I say, not even sure what I am trying to tell him. He frowns and before he can speak, I add, "Don't reduce what we have to something casual."
"You think what we did is casual?" The white of the towel blinding against his darker skin, and for the first time I see him without clothes in the light of day.
He's lean, well sculpted. The tattoo wider than I realized. It covers the upper half of his arm, swirls up over his shoulders, up one side of his throat, and then over his back.
His wet hair is slicked back from his face. Those thin lips purse, even as his eyes glisten, roving over my body.
I still feel the touch of his hands on my hips, his lips on my throat, the roughness of his jaw brushing against my back as he nibbled and kissed and—
I gasp. "I can't do this anymore."
