The Billionaire's Princess - Ava Ryan Page 0,51

after that to help me unwind. If you’re any good with your hands?”

He dimples, the slight narrowing of his eyes telling me he’s heard my challenge and plans to overcome it in spectacular fashion.

“That I can do,” he says, giving me a smoldering once-over.

“Did we just successfully navigate our first fight?” I ask. “I feel like the occasion calls for a plaque or a toast or something.”

“I think I can scrounge up some champagne from the goodies I brought,” he says, grinning as he stands and offers a hand to pull me up. “And I don’t like the term fight. We disagreed. We worked through it. That’s what adults do.”

“I don’t care what you call it, darling,” I say happily, bobbing up to kiss his cheek before I head to my shower. “As long as you still love me.”

He gets the funniest look on his face. Along the lines of what you’d expect to see if someone stuck their fork in a plug and jiggled.

I roll my eyes. Honestly, men. One mention of love or marriage in their presence, even peripherally, and most of them start looking at you as though you approached them with your garden gloves to suggest a rectal exam. I’ve seen it a million times with my girlfriends and their significant others.

“No need to look at me like that,” I say tartly before the poor man launches himself into cardiac arrest. “I was only joking.”

But he only manages a faint smile as he turns away, his expression shadowed.

Luckily, he seems to have recovered by the time I emerge from the shower a few minutes later, towel-wrapped and sweet smelling with my hair piled in a messy bun. He’s waiting for me in my bedroom, with the bed turned down, a candle lit on the nightstand and two fizzing flutes of champagne on standby. Most importantly? He’s sprawled against the pillows with one knee bent, stripped down to his black boxer briefs, revealing the body that catapults me to the edge of orgasm every time I see it. Broad, muscular shoulders, arms and torso, every groove of his abs beautifully articulated. Powerful thighs and toned calves. The bulge of his cock, noticeable even when it’s not standing at full attention.

There’s something deliciously disconcerting about seeing him here, in my private inner sanctum, in all his masculine glory. Like seeing a bull in the bra section of Victoria’s Secret.

“I see you’ve successfully found the bed,” I say, startling him.

He lowers his phone and puts it on the nightstand, taking his time in giving me a thorough once-over. I’m still partially wet, with water droplets dotting my shoulders and cleavage above the white towel. My bare legs receive special attention, as do my manicured feet in my fancy little flip-flops. By the time his gaze flicks back to my face, it’s white-hot.

“I scoped out your bed the other night when I was here.”

“I remember,” I say sourly, walking toward him as he stands. “I was rather hoping you’d put it to good use that night. I was an incredibly sad girl when you left.”

“I plan to make up for that tonight,” he says, reaching under the pillow and presenting me with a white envelope.

I open it, bemused. “You’re not serving me with legal papers, are you?”

“Nope. Just my clean medical report.”

I give it a glance, then set it on the nightstand, touched that he’d go to such lengths to reassure me.

“Thanks. You didn’t have to do that, though. You gave your word. I would’ve trusted you. I wouldn’t be sleeping with you if I didn’t trust you to some extent.”

“Right,” he says, his unblinking and unsmiling attention focused on my face. “But I want you to trust me.”

“Oh,” I say, not at all sure what to make of that. Our relationship keeps making these incremental steps toward significance, and I can’t quite decide whether to let it happen as the most natural thing in the world or throw up a few barriers to protect myself. And I do trust him, down deep on some invisible and illogical cellular level. I’m surprised by how much I trust him.

Luckily, now is not the time for analysis.

“Let’s go,” he says, gesturing toward the bed. “I’m dying to get my hands on you.”

The tent at the front of his boxer briefs leaves no doubt about that and makes me involuntarily lick my lips.

“Fuck, princess,” he says, adjusting himself with a shaky laugh. “Give me half a chance here.”

Delighted as I am to see