The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,25

pot, “if you give me half a chance to ruin the evening, I’m going to take it.”

The bright burst of her laughter breaks up the mood as she finds the pot for me and passes it over.

“This date sucks, to be honest. No hair and makeup. No fancy dinner out. I didn’t even get a hello kiss. We should give some thought to calling the whole thing off. You’re a terrible disappointment.”

With that, she turns to a new cabinet and reaches for wineglasses, giving me a stellar view of her toned ass and thighs as she reaches.

I grab my chance. Like Lin-Manuel Miranda says, I’m not throwing away my shot.

Coming up behind her, I lean against her warm body and wrap her up tight, pressing one of my hands on her torso, my thumb resting in the valley between her breasts, and the other low on her belly, my fingertips just grazing her pussy. She shudders and melts into me, exactly the way I’d hoped she would. At this close range, her scent acts as a hyper-charged aphrodisiac, demanding that I press my nose to her curls and try to identify it. There’s a hint of berries. Of lavender. Of something indefinable that’s entirely her.

Since she wants her kiss, I nudge aside enough hair to reach her bare skin and nuzzle my way to where the tender curve of her neck meets her shoulder. I latch on to that sensitive point, licking and nuzzling just enough to make her shiver and coo.

“You’ve got to stop touching me,” she says helplessly. “I can’t fucking think when you do.”

There’s only one sensible response to that.

“Then don’t think.”

I tighten my grip. Revel in this moment, which I consider to be my reward for focusing hard and working my ass off all day to close my latest deal. And I remind myself that we’re getting to know each other tonight, so now is not the time for me to bend her over the counter and take her from behind. Much as I desperately want to. The last thing I want to do is leave her with the impression that all I want is a quick fuck.

This right here? With her?

It’s more. It’s special. It deserves my best shot. Even if it leaves me with a terminal case of blue balls.

“I lived for that,” I say, reluctantly letting her go and backing up a step. “All day.”

She turns to face me, her color high and her eyes feverishly bright. And I’d hardly be a heterosexual man if I didn’t notice the way her breasts heave as she tries to catch her breath and the prominent dots of her nipples through her thin bra and top.

But it’s the unmistakable uncertainty behind her searching look that really catches my attention.

“What’re we playing at here, Damon?”

Good question. I can only shrug and wish I knew, because this thing between us? Scary as hell.

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” I say.

“My life is already complicated. I’m trying to figure out my life and my career. I’ve got a recent broken engagement under my belt and an overbearing father breathing down my neck.” She hesitates, that hint of vulnerability intensifying in her expression. “I’m trying to be open with you. The last thing I need is anything emotional. Or any, I don’t know, confusion. Am I making any sense?”

I feel another surge of something primitive and protective. Maybe it’s because it’s just the two of us here in her apartment and she’s giving me a glimpse of the fresh-faced young woman beneath the Titian goddess who strode into Bemelmans and slid under my skin. Maybe it’s because I know, even at this ridiculously early stage of things, that I will kill or die before I allow this woman to be hurt on my watch. And make no mistake, my watch began pretty much the second I met her.

As long as she continues to look at me like that? We’re golden.

“You’re making perfect sense,” I tell her.

“So…we’re keeping it casual?”

I frown. The C-word scrapes over my nerves, which is weird because I’m all about casual. Any other time, I’m the one raising the C-word at the beginning of any interaction with a new woman. Hell, if I could make women sign a release stating they understand the casual nature of our relationship and promising to never mention, say, holidays, meeting relatives and/or marriage, I would.

“It is what it is,” I say. “We’re figuring out what it is. Why label it?”

“Like I