CAITLIN CREWS - The Billionaire's Innocent

Because there were some things even he refused to do. Some places he could not allow himself to go, down here in this darkness that was his life. And this woman’s allowing him to have sex with her while she thought the absolute worst of him was, it turned out, high atop that list.

Not that he wanted Nora to know that.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered her.

“The bed.” As though she’d never heard the words before. But she caught herself—or she saw the look he was sure he was wearing on his face and she jolted slightly. She threw a look over her shoulder. “You mean that bed.”

“I do.”

She turned and walked to it, and he had to force himself to breathe low and deep and even despite the perfect curve of that ass. He had to force his head into this game again, because this was much too close to any one of the fantasies he’d tortured himself with in the years since he’d done the noble thing and turned her down flat.

He took his time with his own shirt, and he liked the way she swallowed when he threw it to the side. He liked the way her face blanked out altogether when he kicked off his trousers. And he deeply enjoyed the way her cheeks reddened when she looked down at the hardest part of him at last, and the arousal he made no attempt to hide.

But he couldn’t indulge himself.

Not like this. Not even if he could make her forget who she thought he was.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he said, mercilessly, and she shuddered, her pretty face draining of color.

But then that tilt of her chin again, and she did it.

And she was lithe and lovely beyond measure and he thought this really was going to kill him, because she still didn’t break. She assumed the position. She waited.

So he closed the last of the distance between them, steeling himself to what he had to do now. How he had to push her, and not in a fun way that would get them both off. This was not that fantasy. This was darker. He climbed up behind her and he put his hands on her hips and took hold of her. Hard.

“What…?” She didn’t finish the question. He suspected, from her tone, that she hadn’t meant to ask it.

“You wanted to fuck,” he growled. “This is how I fuck. If I were you, I’d brace myself.”

He gripped her again, pitilessly. He hauled her that last little bit closer, and that was when he felt her wavering. Finally. First it was a ripple that snaked through her perfect form, but she fought it off. She steadied herself, dug her hands deeper into the mattress.

Zair smoothed his hand over one perfectly shaped half of her bottom, ignored the storm raging inside him, and then smacked it. The crack reverberated through the room—and through Nora.

She shuddered hard once, then again, and then she began to shake as if she’d never stop. At last. He was two seconds away from forgetting himself and destroying them both.

Nora lunged to the side and he let her go with some mixture of relief and regret, watching as she rolled and then scrambled all the way to the head of the bed and curled up there with her knees to her chin, effectively shielding herself from his view. Tears streamed down her face and her eyes were dark, bruised shadows and Zair knew that he would carry this moment with him for the rest of his life.

It was one more scar. They never did quite heal.

“Problem?” he asked icily.

“I can’t,” she said, though her voice was thick and the words were broken, and he’d take that with him, too. “I can’t.”

“I know,” he said quietly. Regret and relief and too many other dark things were heavy in the air between them then, or maybe that was only in him. Despair and grief and a harsh satisfaction, too, that he’d read her right. Even if she’d put herself at risk before she’d capitulated. It all swirled together inside him and made him furious. And furious was easier. “And maybe next time you won’t wait so fucking long before you admit it.”

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