Page 19 of Billionaire Romance

“I’m starving,” I say, looking over the menu. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, and some sourdough toast.” I hand her back the menu, and Chris hands his over too and says, “I’ll have the same.”

“Alrighty. It’ll be out shortly,” she says, and leaves.

“I’m not risking ordering a different meal from yours. I barely had two bites of the Reuben last night. Do you do that a lot? Regret your order?”

“Don’t change the subject,” I say. “And yes, I do often regret my meal choices. Tell me, why now? I need to understand.”

Chris leans in, trying to give us some privacy in the noisy restaurant. His proximity is distracting, and my eyes are drawn to his, noting again the unusual coloring, and also this time, an earnestness behind his eyes.

“Because I’m done hiding behind the keyboard, Weaver,” he says. “None of this was planned. It just got out of control. That night in Paris with you, I couldn’t let it be the last time I saw you, but you left. You cast a spell over me, what can I say? Look at you! You’re funny, sexy as hell…Jesus, that night. You were fucking wild, taking everything you wanted from me, so game…

“And like I told you last night, I tracked you down. After that first night…on Sugar Girl…God…you were so fucking hot. The way you talked dirty to me. I’d been thinking about you for days at the point. I was rock hard thinking of you, desperate to see you again. But then after that first session, after what I did, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me, if I could be honest with you about WildCaptain.

“So it went on, and logging onto Sugar Girl became the best part of my day.” He lowers his voice. “I couldn’t get enough of your body. Watching you come for me. Remembering how it felt to touch you, to be inside you.” He coughs and leans back when the waitress appears with a fresh pot of coffee.

As soon as she leaves, he leans in again. “I never understood why you just left me like that in Paris, with no contact information. I wasn’t sure if you really wanted to see me again, and I got scared,” he says. Then he takes my hands in his and says, “But Weaver, the past month, all the times we’ve spent chatting, getting to know each other in other ways, not just sexual, I couldn’t believe there wasn’t something between us. My desire for you had grown, but it wasn’t just for your body, I wanted more.

“I couldn’t wait another minute. That night, when you told me exactly where you’d be, I had to take the chance. I was in Boston for a meeting, and I knew I could be at the club in hours. And when I saw you, finally, dancing under the lights, you were so wild and free, well I hadn’t felt that settled, that sure of anything in my entire life. I knew I had to have you. All of you.”

The intensity in his gaze and words have me looking away. I withdraw my hands from his to drink my coffee, to take some space.

“Just hold on, hold on,” I say, my voice raising into a loud whisper. “It sounds to me like you were unaccustomed to a woman calling the shots. I think the chase turned you on, got you hooked. What if once you “get” me, it’s no fun anymore? What if you’ve just built me up as the one who got away?”

“It’s not that,” he says, seriously. “You know it isn’t. Why are you playing games?”

“Because I don’t really know you, Chris. You don’t really know me. This is too much. It’s too sudden.”

“What do you need to know?” he asks, throwing his arms out wide, as if he’s an open book. “Ask me anything. I promise I’ll answer truthfully.”

He looks sincere, and I wonder how far I can go with this game of twenty questions. Then I’m stuck, because out of all the things I don’t know, and there are plenty, I suddenly wonder what questions are important. His favorite color? His most embarrassing tale from college? Those stories don’t reveal who a person is. It’s experiences that show you a person’s true character. Like the way he cracked through that punk rock chick’s tough exterior, or the way he humored drunk Kate last night under her borage of suspicions. Or the way he fucked me, and prioritized my pleasure, in person and on our cam sessions.

“Food’s on,” a chirpy voice announces. I look up and it’s our waitress, arms full of plates. She places my meal in front of me and its mirror image in front of Chris. Damn, I really was hoping he’d ordered the pancakes.

“So what’s your favorite color?” I ask, because I can’t think of anything else.

“Easy,” he says, taking a bite of his toast. A smile spreads across his face. “There’s this spot, on your cheek. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but when you get flushed, that spot burns brighter, a deep red. That’s my favorite color.”

My breath catches in my throat hearing his answer. I’ve only ever heard my mother talk about that mark on my face. She says when I was little, she always knew when I was really upset because that spot would grow dark. She called it my “early tantrum warning system.” Now Chris has noticed it too.

“What’s your job?” I ask. “Not who do you work for, but what do you actually do?”

“In a nutshell, I do whatever my family tells me to do,” he says. “For the past year I’ve been flying all over the world auditing businesses we’re considering acquiring or investing in. I go to meetings, people show me their spread sheets and balance sheets and pitch me, and I decide if the company’s a good risk for my family.”

I watch Chris cut into his eggs, the yolk runs down the side of his plate, and he dips the toast in quickly, scooping up the golden liquid and popping it into his mouth. Every move he makes is filled with confidence. The way he’s answering these questions as if he knows every answer is the right answer.

“How does someone get as confident as you? What’s the secret?” I ask.

He chuckles, and sits back in his seat, his laughter growing louder.

“What’s so funny,” I ask, a smile creeping over my face now, although I’m not yet in on the joke.

“I just think it’s funny you see me as this confident guy,” he says. “I mean sure, I am to a certain extent, but when it comes to you? I’ve been jerking off behind a computer for the past four months afraid to tell you who I was. That doesn’t scream Mr. Cocky to me.”

Leaning across the table, he runs his hand over mine, his fingers rub the sensitive skin on my wrist. “I’m happy to take you back to my room and show you Mr. Cocky, though. I feel like we have a lot of missed time to make up for.”

His fingers are tracing lazy circles on the palm of my hand now, and his eyes are piercing, practically hypnotizing me to say yes, but I’m not sure. Not yet.

“Is it the money?” he asks. “Are you worried about the money?”

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