I try not to look at his abs or the muscles in his arms. “You’re a billionaire, Mr. Mills. What do you think I expected?”
“Fancy gated house, fancy cars, and way too much house for one person?”
I laugh. “Well, yes. That seems to be the standard with billionaires these days.”
“I’m not your average billionaire.”
“No, you’re not.” I don’t know why it comes out allbreathy.
Owen studies me for a moment until the coffee maker beeps, and his attention returns to his task.
“Do you want some?” he asks.
“Yes, please,” I mumble, heading for the kitchen table.
Owen stops me with a hand on my arm before I reach the chair. I lock eyes with him.
“You seem a bit off this morning.” It’s more of a question than a statement.
“Now, why would you say that?” I ask sarcastically, stepping into him so I can shout in his face. “First, long before I came to your company, you get yourself into some huge mess that involvescriminals, then I get shot in the woods on a hike with you, then you decide to get piss ass drunk at your own charity gala that happens to have a notorious assassin looking for you! And then I find you completely unconscious and have to drag your ass home to your cottage in the woods that no one knows even exists. I put you to sleep, and then lay there, not knowing what the hell is going on!”
I keep rambling, unable to stop myself. “And on top of that, I wake to you tangled up with me, and I was half-naked, and somehow I actually slept without a nightmare, and you wake up, acting like nothing happened!”
I didn’t intend any of it as an insult, but my brain doesn’t know how to process what I’m thinking and feeling, let alone the half-naked man standing in front of me, looking as though I just punched him in the gut.
“I’m sorry, I—”
My brain seems to glitch, and my mouth instinctively crashes into his.
Weeks of tension finally snaps as Owen wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. With his other hand, he grabs the hair at the base of my head and tugs so that the angle of his mouth fits perfectly with mine.
His tongue sweeps in. Before I know it, he’s kissing me as if he’ll never get the chance to taste me again.
I moan into his mouth, and he grabs my hips and spins us, never breaking our contact. He lifts me onto the counter, nudging my legs apart so he can settle between them.
Owen pulls away. His chest rapidly rises and falls in sync with mine. My fingers trace his torso and move slowly down his abs.
He shuts his eyes for a moment, as if he’s trying to compose himself. I smile at his body's reaction to my touch.
“I’m beginning to think your sleep attire was by design,” he whispers, his voice so deep and rough that it sends a spark right through me.
“If it were by design, I would have stayed tangled up in you,” I whisper back, my hands now tracing the edge of his pants.
He sucks in a sharp breath and replies through gritted teeth, “Why didn’t you?”
My fingers stop their back-and-forth motion. “Because I was afraid.”
Owen’s hand lifts, and he runs his thumb across my bottom lip. I swallow the sound gathering in the back of my throat.
“What are you afraid of?” he asks.
“That this is all we get.”
The devastating truth. The reality I don’t want to admit to myself.
Owen’s thumb stops its movement, and I want to take back the words. I want to take it all back so I don’t have to watch his green eyes melt into sadness.
Grabbing the edge of his pants, I pull him back to me, wanting—needing—to fuse our bodies.
