Page 13 of Forbidden Billionaire (Titans #7)

Chapter Nine

Seraphina

I fling open my apartment door so fast the knob bangs the wall behind me. “Thank God—” I’m already picturing Lila’s wide grin, ready to roll up her sleeves and get me out of this hellhole of an apartment.

Except it’s not her.

My heart flatlines, then restarts so hard I almost drop the roll of bubble wrap clutched in my sweaty fist.

It’s Xavier Blackwell, all six-foot-something of unapologetically rugged billionaire bastard, hot enough to make sin sweat, leaning against my peeling doorframe.

He’s balancing a tray of coffee in one hand, a paper bag in the other, looking as if he’s ready to prop up the whole damn world if he needs to.

He plants one of his cuffed boots in the threshold so that I can’t close the door. Not that I want to.

“Expecting someone else, Ms. Hollis?” His voice is a low scrape, a bourbon warmth that doesn’t belong here in my beat-up Midtown apartment with its sputtering window unit and the smell of cheap cardboard boxes.

He’s waiting for an answer. Wondering if I have a man coming over? I should let him suffer, but I can’t. “Lila. My bestie. She was supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

Despite myself, I sweep my glance over him.

On occasion, when I’ve gotten to the office early, I’ve seen him in workout gear before he hits the shower in his private bathroom.

But this…? He’s in dark jeans that hug his thighs indecently well, a gray henley stretched across his shoulders, sleeves shoved up his forearms. There’s a hint of stubble sharpening his jawline, roughening that too-handsome face I still see when I shut my eyes at night.

My traitorous stomach flips, heat curling low in my belly.

“What are you doing here?” My voice sounds like I’ve been run ragged by him, and I still can’t figure out which way is up. He raises the tray.

“Kolaches and coffee. Figured you could use both.”

The scent hits me before the words do—rich, dark coffee, strong enough to drag me back from the dead.

And the kolaches? Yeasty, buttery, still warm in the bag.

Sausage and cheese, if I’m lucky. Comfort food, Montrose-bakery-style.

I was planning to pour stale cereal into a chipped bowl and call it breakfast. But the truth is, I’d sell part of my soul for a fresh kolache right now.

But I’m shocked beyond words. My agreement with him says I’m supposed to work at least half a day on Saturdays, and I’ve had a lot of time off to look at apartments and go shopping for clothes. Which makes the fact he’s standing here when he’d rather be at the office all the more surprising.

“I’m guessing you’ve been so busy with work and packing that eating wasn’t a priority.”

He’s right.

Thank God I finally got my last paycheck from Sterling. It covered the boxes and the tape and maybe the gas for making a few more food deliveries if I need to pad my bank account before the first real paycheck clears. But a splurge from a high-end bakery? Not happening.

“You’re right about that.” The twelve-hour days at work haven’t given me a lot of personal time.

He lifts an eyebrow, then glances past my shoulder, waiting. I know what he wants—permission. He could barge right in, but that’s not the game we play. He wants me to let him.

I hesitate, mortified that the only thing worse than him standing here would be him standing here while I shut the door in his face. So I step back, brushing a stack of half-filled boxes. He steps inside, his boots heavy on the cracked linoleum that’s pretending to be tile.

He heads straight for my tiny two-person table and sets down the tray and bag, arranging it with the same precision he uses to dismantle my spreadsheets. I shut the door and turn the deadbolt, the click echoing too loud in the cramped apartment.

In the too-small space, he drags his eyes over me, slow and possessive.

I have no doubt he’s judging the threadbare T-shirt, the ratty old baseball cap with my unruly ponytail poking out the opening in the back, and the shorts that barely cover anything.

My thighs are basically out there for the world to see—or at least for Xavier Blackwell to look at, which is worse. And if I bend over…

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Those shorts,” he says, voice dropping low, “need to be burned.”

I fold my arms over my chest, ignoring the squeak of the bubble wrap pressing into my ribs. “It’s ninety-eight degrees out, and if you haven’t noticed, the window units are all but on strike. You want me in a power suit while I sort my sock drawer?”

His gaze, hot enough to sear right through the fraying hem of my dignity, lifts from my bare skin. “You’re tempting me, Ms. Hollis. Take that as fair warning.”

My pulse flutters. Every sensual moment between us comes crashing back. The spanking. The kiss. The dinner at Bluewater Bistro. The heat of him every time he leans over my desk to study a financial projection.

Does he know how much I want him, even though I shouldn’t?

“I’m melting in the heat.” Why am I continuing to poke the bear?

His eyes flash, dark and hungry, like he wants to devour that piece of defiance right off my tongue. He shifts closer, boots scraping across the cracked linoleum, the scent of coffee and temptation curling between us.

Houston’s swampy heat presses in, sweat beading on my neck. I see the internal war raging in his eyes. Take . Don’t take.

I can’t breathe. Not if I want to keep any scrap of my self-control intact.

“Go change, Ms. Hollis. While I still let you.”

I really shouldn’t stand here half naked in front of this man. Not when Lila could walk in at any second and see the truth stamped across my face. That I want him to touch me. And if he does, I won’t stop him.

“Last chance.”

Pivoting, I drop the bubble wrap on the floor as I dodge a stack of boxes, then bolt for the bedroom and slam the door behind me.

I strip off the too-short shorts and yank a slightly more respectable pair from a laundry basket.

My hands shake as I pull them on. I swear I still feel the burn of his gaze on my thighs.

My billionaire boss is dangerous in suits. But like this? Casual, unpolished, no armor? He’s devastating.

When I come back out, my new, slightly longer shorts clinging to my thighs, he’s already found a plate in my pathetic excuse for a kitchen.

He’s arranged the kolaches like they’re some five-star pastry on a catering tray, napkins perfectly fanned out, and he’s holding out my coffee like it’s a peace offering.

“It’s a mocha. Extra whipping cream.”

“You remembered.”

“Every detail, Ms. Hollis.”

I reach for it, ignoring the way my fingers want to linger against his. The to-go cup is filled with an expensive brand, not the stale drip I’d planned to drink while frantically shoving the rest of my belongings into boxes and bags.

His eyes flick down to my new shorts, skimming my legs in a slow, unhurried sweep. “You think those are less tempting?” His murmur is pitched low, private.

Heat prickles up my throat. “They cover more than the other ones did.” I’m defensive, and I wish I sounded stronger.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

It’s reckless, how I want him. He could have any woman on the planet—hell, the tabloids love him for it. The scandalous headlines that nearly celebrated my downfall are still etched in my mind.

So why he’s here, in my dump of an apartment, hauling pastries like some sinfully hot handyman, I have no idea.

I open my mouth to thank him and send him on his way, but I’m stopped by the incessant ringing of the bell. That can only be Lila. And God, I hope she behaves. I never know what she’s going to say, and he’s among her least favorite people on the planet.

Excusing myself, I dart past him, swing the door open—and there she is, all Montrose energy in big boho earrings, neon nails gripping an iced coffee the size of Texas.

She stops dead when she spots him, her eyes narrowing so hard I swear even the humidity recoils.

“Well, if it isn’t the man whose predator king reputation precedes him.” Her voice drips sugar and vinegar at the same time. “I’ve been friends with Seraphina for years. Believe me, I know all about you.”

She gives him the kind of once-over that should strip paint, and I’m scandalized.

“Mr. Billionaire’s playing mover now? What’s the matter? Your jet in the shop?”

He lifts the plate of kolaches an inch, utterly unruffled. “I have food.”

In this moment, I admire him more than I ever have.

Lila lifts her giant iced latte in his direction. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy them. We’ve got it from here. I’m sure you have billionaire stuff to do. Like destroying more lives.” She uses her free hand to shoo him away. “Off you fuck.”

Before my cheeks can catch fire completely, there’s another knock—two crisp raps in perfect sync. Blackwell pivots, opens the door like he’s done this a hundred times, and in stream three uniformed movers in spotless matching polos and efficient smiles.

My stomach drops. “Wait—what? I can’t afford?—”

“Part of your housewarming gift, Ms. Hollis.” His tone is final, steel beneath the soft. His eyes lock on mine, daring me to argue. “You’re not going to win this.”

I swallow, feeling heat bloom under my collar. “You really?—”

He just arches an eyebrow. “I’m not leaving, Seraphina, even though your friend suggested otherwise.” After sparing her a glance, he looks back at me. “I’m staying to help.”

My protest shrivels on my tongue when Lila shockingly jumps in. “Accept the help and say thank you.”

“But—”

“Spend his damn money. You wouldn’t be living here in the first place if it wasn’t for that asshat.” She flashes me a look that says Don’t argue. “I about died from heat exhaustion on the way over here. I wasn’t looking forward to hauling boxes down all those flights of stairs.”

He glances around my tiny kingdom of half-filled boxes and open cabinets, then settles his expectant stare on me. “What’s left?”

I’m too tired to fight both of them, and she’s right about the wilting heat. Defeated, I blow out a breath. “There’re still a few things in the kitchen. Some drawers in the bathroom. And a few personal things in my bedroom.” Things I’d rather not have a stranger— him —see.

Lila’s grin proves she knows exactly what kind of personal things I’m talking about. “I’ll let you handle that while I pack up the bathroom. Blackheart can handle the kitchen.”

I freeze, remembering his reaction when I slipped and called him that.

Other than raising an eyebrow, he doesn’t even acknowledge the barb. Instead, his gaze flicks to me. He’s wearing a half smile, as if he’d also guessed what I meant about the bedroom. “Got my assignment.”

I’m too flustered to process this domestic version of him. Is he the same man who buried me in a scandal three years ago? Now he’s delivering sausage rolls and taping a moving box shut like it’s foreplay.

I spin back, grab a half-empty box, and rush down the hallway.

Before I can get interrupted, I start grabbing bras, panties, and the one piece of lingerie I splurged on the year before I lost everything. Then I reach for the top drawer—where my toys are tucked behind a stash of extra batteries.

Of course that’s when I sense him behind me. Tall, broad, all polished control in worn boots and rolled sleeves.

His shadow falls across the dresser. I snatch my vibrator and dildo like they’re a snake, drop them in the box, and slam the flaps down. Expression serious, not betraying anything, he looks at me and says nothing.

Instead, he picks up the packing tape roll from the nightstand and seals the box in one long swipe across the top.

The sound of the tape tearing feels louder than my heartbeat.

“That’s handled. All contents safe and secure.”

Is it possible for me to die of embarrassment?

When the last box is sealed, he heads back into the living room to oversee the movers like some mafia don of home relocation—giving crisp instructions that make the uniformed guys hop like trained puppies.

Lila clutches her iced coffee like it’s a talisman warding off billionaire devil magic as he double checks the straps on the dolly.

When the trucks are ready to roll, he turns to me, ready to brush his fingers across my lower back.

Just in time, he stops himself.

I swallow hard, yearning for that momentary connection. “I’ll…ride with Lila.” It will give me some much needed space from him, and I know she’ll have plenty to say.

His mouth curves, that infuriating half smile that promises I’ll replay every second of this morning when I’m lying awake tonight. Six months from now, I’ll probably still be replaying it. “See you at your new home, Ms. Hollis.”

He leaves, his boots echoing, and Lila shuts the door behind him with an audible click . I slump against the cracked wall, pulse still hammering.

Lila waves her iced coffee at me like a wand. “Come on. Let’s go before you change your mind and run off to Vegas with him.”

I scoff. “Not likely.”

Her grin is razor sharp. “Sure.”

The AC in her car does almost nothing for the heat as we merge into the tangle of Midtown traffic, my apartment shrinking behind us like a bad secret.

“He hired movers.” Lila wrinkles her nose. “Brought pastries. Taped your box of…secrets. I’m not saying he’s Prince Charming, but?—”

I cut her off. “Don’t. We both know he’s dangerous as hell.”

“All I can say is, kolaches and movers aside, if he hurts you again, I will bring a shovel and some bleach.”

I bark out a laugh, leaning my head back against the sticky seat. The hum of Houston, the honk of traffic, the swirl of old heartbreak and fresh confusion all knot together in my chest.

When we finally pull into the parking garage of my new building, my new life, I press my palm to the car door to steady myself.

How can this be real?

Rags to riches.

Seeming to read my mind, Lila plucks off her sunglasses. “You deserve it.”

After swiping my keycard across an electronic eye, the elevator slides open, and we glide up to my floor.

And when we exit, I come to a dead stop.

Blackwell is there. And so are two other men that I don’t know.