Expecting the Billionaire's Heir - Chapter 9
Damn, it had been way too easy to get an invite into the Hall.
But Baz couldn’t seem to concentrate on inspecting the state of the building or its investment potential—because he was too busy being captivated by the girl leading the way in front of him. And the feel of her hand, so soft and sure in his.
He tried to shake off the spell, again.
Like he had in the pub, when she’d told him why she’d ratted on him, and he’d been stunned. Not just because she’d cared enough to want to rescue him from Clanton’s gang, or because she’d beaten herself up about what had gone down that night for so long—but because he’d finally admitted to himself that she’d been a big part of why he’d turned himself around. Because she’d treated him like he mattered, when no one else ever had.
Her fingers gripped his and she shot an artless smile over her shoulder.
‘This way, Baz,’ she whispered.
Baz? Why was he thinking of himself as that messed-up boy again, just because she kept using his old name.
Get a grip, man.
That night and their old friendship were ancient history.
Damn it, he was Brody now… Except he wasn’t, not to her, and that scared the hell out of him. How could she look at him, and see that kid—and not want to run a mile?
‘Shall we take the master bedroom?’ she asked, her eyes bright.
A memory flashed back to him, of her, as a kid, telling him everything would be okay. He’d taken a beating from one of Clanton’s hoods and climbed through a window of the home. She’d discovered him trying to hold back tears in the bathroom and helped him clean up.
He’d blanked so much of his life back then, but that memory made his heart slow.
‘We deserve it,’ he said, keeping his voice steady, to exorcise that memory and all the others making this more than it ever could be.
She opened a door onto a lavish room, the fresh scent of lemon polish merging with the musty smell of old wood.
He tugged her round to face him.
The awareness in her eyes had arousal pounding down. He kissed her, hard and firm, absorbing her sob of arousal, desperate to get their booty call back on track.
He hooked her leg over his hip. She jolted, then rubbed herself against his erection through their clothing.
Yes… The surge of heat felt validating, and a lot easier to understand.
He’d just been too long without a woman. Their past had nothing to do with this.
He dragged her to the room’s four-poster bed, laid her down and rode his hands under her dress to find her wet for him.
Desire fogged his brain. He yanked his wallet out, found a condom. Then ripped open his fly, to sheath himself with clumsy fingers.
She rose to kiss him, her lips sure and seeking, her breathy sighs driving him nuts. The sound of ripping lace cut through their tortured breathing.
He drove into the tight clasp of her body, then located her clitoris, frantic to make her come, because he couldn’t hold on for long. She moved with him, her sobs drawing him under—yanking him back to a time in his life when sex had been the only comfort. Those sweaty, furtive encounters the only way to feel loved.
His mind frayed even as the orgasm slammed into him. She gripped his shoulders, her body spasming around his as he collapsed on top of her—dragged under by the fierce wave of pleasure, and pain and brutal afterglow.