Page 92 of Faking it with the Billionaire
She leans in and presses her lips softly to mine. The kiss is soft, chaste, questioning what we are, and full of uncertainty. I don’t want her to have any doubts about us, about my feelings for her.
I deepen the kiss, pulling her closer, tighter, letting her feel my erection poke her through my trousers. “You’re the only woman I want,” I whisper against her lips. “And I do think that you should move out,” I say.
Her brow pinches, and her bottom lip juts forward. It’s the most adorable expression, and I want to kiss the worry right off her lips.
“Out of your own room and into my bedroom.”
* * *
We’re officially dating.
Lia has promised to babysit Bristol while I take Em out on a real date.
“I can’t promise there won’t be paparazzi following us,” I remind her as I poke my head into our bedroom while she’s getting ready.
“Out!” she shouts and points at the door. “You’re not supposed to see me like this.”
“It’s not a wedding,” I say with a shrug. But damn, does she look good. The black and red dress hugs her body in the best way possible.
I shift uncomfortably when I feel my cock twitch in my pants.Not now, boy. There’s plenty of time for that later.
I want to wine and dine her. She deserves a real date. One where we’re not holding hands and forcing smiles because the guests are trying to decipher our relationship status. This isn’t a show that we’re putting on to impress anyone else.
Well, there is one person I’d like to impress, and that’s Emerson. It’s a tall order, considering that I’m a billionaire, but she made me promise nothing extravagant. No flying her to Paris for an early breakfast or Aruba for a midnight stroll on the beach.
Damn. Both of those were on my ‘dates with Em’ list.
So, I’m trying to do something normal. I’m not the least bit normal when it comes to dating women. I have a kid. And let’s face it. Em is living with me.
We’ve done this dating to get to know each other completely backward. Ass backward if you ask me. But I don’t mind it, because I’ve already sampled the goods and absolutely love them.
I want more of her.
More of this wild romance with Em, so tonight is about two normal people going out in New York City for a typical date. She made me stick to a budget.
One hundred dollars.
I’m tempted to sneak a few extra hundred-dollar bills into my wallet because her budget is unrealistic for me. Let’s face it, a bottle of wine is at least twice that cost. Plus appetizers, dinner, and suppose we go anywhere at all that charges admission, like a stroll at the zoo or a walk through the museum, and my budget is already blown.
One hundred dollars will barely cover dinner.
I want to make this night special with Em, and while I wholeheartedly agree to keep things from being extravagant, I also want to wine and dine her.
The girl isn’t after my money. I mean, sure, I’ve paid her six figures a month for her to fake date me, but she’s earned every cent. Especially when I proposed to her on the ice, and she had no idea what I was doing.
The media still thinks we’re engaged. There are rumors we’re pregnant, but we haven’t addressed those with the media. Let them talk. I’ve avoided their questions, and now that I’m no longer on thin ice with the league, I’m out cold, and the news media isn’t interested in pestering me. They got their interview and have moved on.
Their most recent focus has been on James Fitzgerald, who has only delivered one line repeatedly to the press: “No comment.” He has since been arrested for threatening my daughter, among a number of other criminal charges.
It turns out that I’m not the only hockey player he blackmailed who has a kid. And the league has quietly suspended those players as well. They’ve all taken time off to be with their families and support their kids. Especially since we all have one thing in common, we’re single fathers.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I step into the hallway, letting Em finish getting ready. It’s Fitzgerald, the slimy owner who at least did one decent thing with his life—he admitted that his brother was behind the threats.
“Greyson,” I say, answering the phone.
“I wasn’t sure you’d take my call,” Brent says.
“Why? Because you sexually harassed my fiancée, or your brother threatened my daughter?”
