Pippa Roscoe - Demanding His Billion-Dollar Heir

He had reached her and, now that they were standing so close, she had to crane her neck back to look at him. He really was breathtaking, his piercing eyes, a colour similar to rich honey, bearing down into hers.

‘It’s my birthday,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if it really was a secret to be shared.

‘Truly?’ she asked as a wide smile pulled at her mouth.

‘I don’t...usually do celebrations,’ he said somewhat distastefully.

She wanted to tell him then that she understood. That she hated her birthday too. But it felt...too personal, too intrusive. His birthday was about him. Not her. She pulled up the bottle of champagne she still clutched, and offered it to him, wondering whether he would take a sip this time.

He gently took the neck of the bottle in his large hands, put it to his lips, making sure there was enough air angled in the throat of the bottle not to funnel the bubbles over him.

But not once did he take his eyes from hers. After he’d taken a mouthful, he passed the bottle back to her and she placed her lips where his had been. The knowledge of it fired her blood once again, bringing a blush to her cheeks and the low v between her breasts. She followed his actions as she took a sip, faintly happy that she didn’t end up with a face full of bubbles and look as naïve as she felt in that moment.

She didn’t know what she was doing...how to do what she wanted to. And she really wished that weren’t the case. Wished, suddenly, for experience to entice, to draw him to her. To know whether it was just her enthralled to this madness.

Matthieu could see it—what her body was asking for—and feared that she wasn’t even aware of it. And God help anyone when she became aware of her power. The beauty of this woman could fell armies.

‘You know my name,’ he stated.

She smiled and nodded her head slowly, understanding the implied question, and delighting in teasing him for it. And surprisingly, he liked it. That teasing sense of her with no emotional undercurrent or ulterior motive. He watched as the teasing morphed into something else...something more primal yet serious.

‘Maria. Maria Rohan de Luen.’ It was said with a slightly Spanish flare and he mentally rolled it around his mind, liking the way it bounced within him. Unconsciously he mouthed the words, drawing her attention to his lips. The way she looked at his mouth caused that infernal beast within him to roar with pride and need and all the things he knew he should lock down tight. He should not be here. Not tonight, when this woman was threatening his cast-iron defences against things he had not thought of for years.

A timely reminder and one he needed to heed. He nodded once, to himself at his decision made, and then again at Maria, silently bidding her adieu. Because if he didn’t leave here soon, he might not leave at all. And she was too pure, too innocent for that. Had never been kissed until this night.

He gave her an almost apologetic smile, the gesture unfamiliar on his lips, and turned to go. He had reached the door, his fingers around the handle before her words stopped him.

‘Before you go, can I ask one more thing?’

He turned his head, not a single clue as to what she might ask for. But whatever had run through his mind, it hadn’t been what she proceeded to say.

‘Would you show me your scars?’

White noise was all he could hear in his mind and below that, somewhere deeper, a furious roar, snarling and gnashing as if some great wound had been reopened. It must have shown on his face, because Maria took a step back for which he felt instantly regretful. He didn’t want her to be scared. But she would be if she saw them. They all were.

Instantly he was transported back to the first time he’d bared himself to a woman. At seventeen, he’d been naïve enough to think that Clara had cared for him. The swift fury that streaked through him at the memory of betrayal had him turning away from Maria.

But...

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘That you feel you have to hide them.’

And why couldn’t he show them to Maria? It wasn’t as if he would ever see her again after this night, not once he left this room. She’d found strength and pride in her own scars, but what would she find in his?

‘They’re not pretty,’ he warned.

‘I don’t care for pretty,’ she responded defiantly, not once taking her eyes from his. There was that strength again. The steel that he recognised encased in soft perfection.

Gritting his teeth, he turned and stalked back to her, lifting his shirt from his trousers as he did so. One by one he undid the shirt buttons and still she didn’t drop her gaze. The women he usually spent his time with either hungrily sought out the scars that had fuelled his reputation as a beast, or were barely interested in anything above his belt.

Having reached the last button, he took one last look at her before shrugging out of the white shirt and casting it aside, standing there before her unwavering gaze. Maria didn’t break the connection between their eyes, not immediately and he gave her credit for that. But finally he closed his eyes, unwilling and unable to see those beautiful features puckered with disgust.

He felt her close the distance between them, the heat from her body pressing against his skin. The undamaged skin, because his nerves had been dulled by the injured tissue and skin grafts that covered nearly half of his torso. He felt her circle him, could have sworn he felt the weight of her gaze sparking a thousand starbursts across his body, even the damaged parts. He sensed when she had come back to face him and braced himself as he opened his eyes. But where he had expected revulsion and horror, even the morbid fascination he occasionally experienced, instead he saw wonder and something like awe.

Maria was enthralled. Utterly and completely. I don’t like fire , that was what Matthieu had said. Yes, his torso had been badly disfigured from the scars that swept around his forearm and reached up to his neck, where she’d seen the silvery traces earlier in the evening. They covered almost half of his chest and, she had seen, wrapped around his flanks and up across his shoulder blades. The twists of tissue, strangely pale, nearly white against his tanned skin, and in some places shiny and criss-crossed from what she could only presume to be many, many skin grafts to help the full thickness burns she could see were from years ago.

The patterns she found on his chest were painfully beautiful to her and she couldn’t even imagine the kind of agony he must have experienced for these to heal, nor the time it must have taken. His skin had reformed over the powerful muscles of his arms, just as large as she’d imagined, and the scars rippled over the muscles in his abdomen, the powerful outline of a six pack that spoke to a brutal physical training regime. Because that was what screamed at her most as he stood there, shirtless, his lower limbs encased in low-slung blue superfine trousers. Strength and raw power. Power that was almost straining at some kind of self-imposed leash.

‘What do you see?’ he asked. Demanded almost.

And she said the words that had come to her mind. ‘Magnificence.’ Raw masculinity , but she couldn’t let herself say that last out loud. Because it spoke too much to her desire for him. It would have betrayed her.