Page 24 of Saved By the Billionaire

The way he said her name though sent a shiver down her spine, and a moment later, he was standing, staring down at her as though genuinely torn. She stared up at him, the taste of him, of wine, of needing more assaulting her from the inside out.

“Don’t go.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to.” He reached down and cupped her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lashes like fans against her skin.

“So don’t.”

“I have to. Don’t you get it? I brought you here to protect you, to keep you safe. And there’s nothing safe about what we’re doing now.”

He pulled back from her completely, stepping to the side.

“Goodnight, Kate. Call if you need anything.”

“I need⁠—”

“Other than that,” he groused, expression a thunderclap, so she almost laughed as he stalked from the room. But need was too urgent, desire too rampant, to give into humour. She watched him go with a sinking feeling, and a sense that for the first time in her adult life, she wanted more than was smart, more than wise. She wanted, no matter what. To hell with the consequences. And that was something Kate had always sworn she’d never do – because wanting more than someone would willingly give was a guaranteed pathway to pain. And she’d known enough of that in her life.

A cold shower could usually fix most things, Roman found, but even the torture of letting the icy water pummel him did nothing to subdue the heat in his veins and the hardness of his cock. Eventually, he gave in. Not to Kate, but to surrender. He reached down and touched himself, eyes closed, remembering the way it had felt to push his finger into her warm, moist mouth, to feel her wrap around him and know she was as desperate for him as he was for her.

Afterwards, chest heaving from the explosive pleasure, he dressed in jeans and a shirt and returned to the living room, pouring himself a neat measure of scotch and taking it, barefoot, out on the balcony. Icy wind rushed around him; good. More coldness. More punishment. He threw back the scotch, the contrast between warmth and cold inevitable and necessary. He gripped the glass and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds from far below. Cars, distant voices, wind. He closed his eyes and imagined Grace, her last nights on earth. Was she afraid? Or too far out of it to realise how perilous her life choices had been? Was she too high, too wasted, to realise that she was about to kill herself?

Was she angry with him? Did she know how badly he’d failed her?

He pressed back against the wall of the building, eyes squeezed shut at the familiar sense of panic that made it hard to breathe. Panic and blame, the kind of self-recrimination from which he’d never recover. Saving Kate was something. It was a glimmer of redemption, but it was not enough. Nothing ever would be.

For as long as he’d failed Grace, he didn’t deserve to forgive himself, and he didn’t deserve happiness. He particularly didn’t deserve a woman like Kate to beg for him, to want him, as though he alone was the answer to all her prayers.

Kate looked at him like he was a hero, like he could save anyone and anything. But the truth was, he’d failed. He’d failed to save Grace when she’d needed him, and saving Kate wasn’t enough to erase that. It never would be.

Chapter Six

NO ONE IN KATE’S LIFE had ever really wanted her after her mother had died. None of the foster homes she’d been to, none of the friends she’d made in her short stints at various schools. Rejection wasn’t new to Kate, but she wasn’t sure it had ever stung quite like this.

Because she’d been sure about Roman.

Not that he wanted a relationship with her, but that he wanted her, if only on a purely physical level. Something had been sparking between them all day, and by the time it had reached a fever pitch, she’d been so sure he was ready to indulge it—as she was.

But instead, he’d gotten up and left her there, panting and desperate, and feeling like an absolute fool.

So the next morning, rather than call for Roman, she hobbled to the bathroom herself and got ready for the day. It took a long time, and her ankle still hurt—though it was definitely starting to hurt less. She felt proud afterwards. Proud that she’d asserted this independence, that she’d shown him she could do some things for herself.

Proud as she made her way down the corridor of his penthouse and into the enormous open-plan living area, looking around. It was immaculate, as always. No sign of champagne or Chinese, just an architecturally magnificent space.

And no sign of Roman.

She moved into the kitchen and propped herself carefully against the counter as she began to make a coffee, salivating for that wonder drug. She ground the beans, and perhaps it was that noise that drew him to the lounge, because a moment later he was there, close enough to catch her should she need it, but not touching her.

“You’re up.”

His Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed.

Her smile felt forced. Heavy on her face. “Yes.”

“And showered.”

She lifted a brow. “Is that a problem?”

“You should have called me.”