Caught Between Two Billionaires - Skye Warren Page 0,125
and I’m like goddamn iron. There’s about a hundred ways I want you, and when we’re done with that, I’ll think up a hundred more.”
He doesn’t take a step toward me. Doesn’t move a muscle. “What’s stopping you?”
“And when you’re done fucking around with me?”
I flinch at the word fucking, the way it’s laced with accusation. The way he makes it sound hollow. Isn’t he right? It’s not like we’re married, riding off into the sunset on three of his horses. We had a threesome after an illegal poker game. “Don’t tell me you found religion.”
Another low sound, this one menacing. He does move then, pushing me back, crowding me against slats of wood. “You don’t have one goddamn idea what I believe.”
“Then tell me,” I challenge, pushing back, my palms against his chest. They don’t move him any, but they give me an excuse to touch him. To measure him. To feel the muscles he’s holding in check.
He dips his head near mine. “You’re not the only one I dream about.”
My body responds to the seductive timbre in his voice, which is sad, really sad, because he must be in love with someone else. At least in lust with someone else. “Another woman?”
“No, sweetheart.”
I pull back, staring hard at those beautiful blue eyes. “You’re not—But he—”
“Go ahead and say it,” he says in a drawl. “Spell it out for the horses, here. They don’t understand.”
My cheeks feel warm. I’ve turned over every rock, searching, demanding answers, and now that they’re exposed to the sun, I’m suddenly worried. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Oh, I think I do. After all I had my cock inside you not long ago. I played with your clit while I groaned your name. Isn’t that what you said?”
I swallow hard. “You… and Christopher?”
“No,” he says sharply. “Don’t get the wrong idea. We’re not an item. Never have been. Never will be.”
“But you want to be,” I whisper. “Does he know?”
A rough sound. “Does he know? I don’t even fucking know half the time. It’s a goddamn mystery. A riddle designed to drive me slowly insane. It’s un-fucking-knowable.”
All the pain inside him pours out. It’s always been there, simmering around him. Disguised as Southern charm, when really he’s caught in unrequited love. Unrequited desire?
“All this time,” I say, slowly wondering. I’m not hurt by this revelation, but there’s time for that later. “When you wanted me. It’s because of my connection to Christopher. When you took me to the theater, when you knelt down in front of me at L’Etoile. When you first saw me in your office.”
“No. Yes. Hell, I’m not lying to you. You take over every room that you walk into. I knew there was something special about you from the way Christopher talked, and then when I met you, it was over.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it doesn’t matter whether I wanted to use you to get back at Christopher. Or to get close to him. When I saw you, when I got to know you, I fell for you, not for who you were to him.”
“Oh, and you just magically got over him?”
“No,” he says, as solemn as I’ve ever seen him. “I wish it were that simple.”
I let my hands fall to my side, away from him. The loss feels like a physical blow. “You never really wanted me. Tell me the truth, Sutton. I deserve that much.”
Something dark moves beneath those blue eyes. “Christ. Want you? I didn’t want you, sweetheart. It was a craving. A need. Do you know how much it tore me up?” His voice comes out ragged, a man at the end of his rope. “I’ve spent the past six months trying to get you out of my head.”
“Did it work?”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “I wake up hard every morning, your taste on my tongue.”
“It’s as close as you’ll ever get to Christopher Bardot. Is that it?” My voice is taunting because I’m too shaken up. Too aware that I was between these men, both physically and emotionally. “You really want to suck his dick, but I’m the one who got to do it.”
He grabs my hand and presses it against his jeans. The denim is well-worn from washing. I can feel him hard and impossibly hot. “This feel like I don’t want you?”
I squeeze gently, and he makes a sound low in his throat.
“Go back to Tanglewood,” he says, a little breathless.
He’s thick and ready in my hand. I could push down