Page 22 of Forbidden Billionaire (Titans #7)

Chapter Sixteen

Seraphina

Now I’m not sure I can survive him.

“Ready to go? I found a place online that looks interesting.”

How does he do that? Switch gears so fast? Once again, his voice is well modulated, making my head spin.

We take the elevator down, nod at the doorman, then step outside. Even at this time of the morning, Houston’s air is already thick and humid, heavy with the promise of afternoon showers.

The sidewalks glisten faintly, the scent of wet concrete still lingering from someone’s sprinkler or an early morning rain.

The neighborhood is alive in that Heights kind of way—eclectic cottages nestled next to modern bungalows, the faint thrum of music escaping an open window, wind chimes dancing on porches painted in bright colors, and a guy on a bicycle riding past with a French bulldog in his basket.

Beside me, Xavier walks with easy confidence, his fingers brushing mine as we fall into step. He seems every bit as at ease here as he is at the Bluewater Bistro or in his boardroom.

Then—God help me—he laces our fingers together, and the casual intimacy of it floors me. His touch is gentle now, a contradiction to the dominance he claimed over me not twenty minutes ago. My skin is still tingling from the relentless way he drove me to a shattering climax.

Every step reminds me I’m not wearing panties. There’s no buffer, no modesty. Just the slick heat between my thighs, the whisper of the sundress against my bare skin, and the knowledge that if I so much as stumble or sit wrong, I’d be showing everything to the early risers.

He grins, a wicked slow burn and male pride. “You like knowing you’re making me happy, don’t you?”

Shockingly I do. Probably more than I should. And the happier he is with me, the more relaxed he seems. The more charming. The more devastating.

“You’re beautiful when you’re compliant.” We stop to wait for the cross signal at an intersection, and he lifts my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss across my knuckles.

I should pull away. But I don’t. My heart squeezes, and my breath catches, and a buried, fragile piece of me starts to unfurl.

The moment we step inside the place he found, I’m hit with a burst of air-conditioning and the scent of bacon, cinnamon, and roasted coffee.

The place is pure Heights—brick walls lined with indie art, plants dangling from ceiling hooks, tables that don’t match, and a chalkboard menu with too many options and cheeky descriptions.

There’s a handmade mosaic over the coffee bar, shaped like the Houston skyline, and behind the counter, a barista with a teal mohawk and a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt nods at us like we’re regulars.

The vibe is loud but not chaotic, music humming from a speaker overhead—something bluesy with a lazy, sexy rhythm that matches the beat of my pulse.

The chalkboard menu boasts things like bourbon-pecan waffles and brisket tacos.

And the food that’s coming out of the kitchen looks as if it’s to die for.

There’s a tray passing by with what looks like red velvet pancakes stacked high and drizzled in cream cheese glaze, another piled with avocado toast on thick-cut sourdough, sprinkled with goat cheese and pomegranate seeds.

A server walks past, carrying cold-brew flights served in small mason jars. This is brunch with a capital B.

Xavier scans the menu with interest, his hand still possessively resting at the small of my back. “You’re getting the brisket tacos.” He murmurs his wishes against my ear. “I want to watch you eat them with your bare hands.”

Heat flushes through me at the way he says it—low, intimate, with just enough gravel to make me squirm.

“I’ll need a fork,” I counter, even though I already know I’ll do exactly what he wants.

He gives me a look that says try me, then glances up at the chalkboard again. “And I’ll take the red velvet pancakes. We’ll share.”

After we order, I pull out my wallet.

“I’ve got it,” he says smoothly.

“Xavier—”

“Save your breath. Another argument you won’t win. And you’ll just annoy the hell out of me.”

After everything he’s already done? Never in a million years could I repay him. This is a tiny gesture. “I can?—”

“You will offend me. Don’t do that. I’m fragile.”

Oh my God. Xavier Blackwell? Fragile? That’s the last thing on earth he is.

The barista—a wiry guy with arm tattoos and a beanie despite the heat—quirks a brow but doesn’t comment.

I roll my eyes just as the woman at the register next to ours chuckles. “Oh, honey. I’d let a good-lookin’ man like yours buy me breakfast any day of the week.”

She’s wearing bright floral leggings and a matching visor, and she’s holding a miniature poodle in a baby sling across her chest like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And it is the Heights. So probably it is the most normal thing in the world.

Xavier smiles at her, slow and devilish. “How about today, ma’am?

She laughs, eyes twinkling, and he adds her order to ours without a second thought.

He looks at our cashier. “And get something for her date.” He nods at the dog.

“Pumpkin muffin?” the man suggests.

“Perfect.” She nods. “Professor Wigglebottom is gluten-free, aren’t you, my perfect little preciousness?”

It’s effortless, the way Xavier navigates the world. Commanding. Generous. Charming as hell.

I’m seeing yet another new layer of him, and it makes my chest ache. Because unfortunately, and probably stupidly, I’m starting to fall for my nemesis.

The woman smiles at Xavier. “Professor Wigglebottom and I thank you very much.” She winks at me. “Honey, you’ve got a good one, here.”

I pretend my heart isn’t tripping over itself.

After a quick discussion, we agree to eat outside because the patio is beautiful, dripping in tropical plants and framed in by purple blossoming bougainvillea.

Overhead, vibrant canvas sails stretch between poles, filtering the sunlight in stripes of coral, teal, and mango. A dozen ceiling fans spin valiantly, pushing air that’s more warm than cool, but it’s moving, so I’m grateful.

Xavier finds us a table beneath one of the larger fans, the blades whirring like they’re working overtime to impress him. He pulls out my chair like a gentleman—which, let’s be honest, still surprises me—and waits until I’m settled. “Is the air blowing up your dress and reaching your wet pussy?”

Scandalized, I freeze.

With a smile, he takes a seat across from me. “Well? Is it?”

Mumbling the truth, I look away.

“Does it feel good? Naughty?”

“Both,” I respond miserably.

“Good. Can’t wait to feel it for myself.”

I’ve barely stopped blushing when our drinks arrive.

Xavier’s is a tall tumbler filled with the shop’s signature cold brew—no cream, no sugar, strong, just like the man himself.

Mine is a cold-brew flight in three petite mason jars arranged on a wooden paddle: salted caramel, coconut cream, and hazelnut-chicory. I take a sip of the coconut one and hum softly. It tastes like being on vacation, all silky and tropical.

He watches me with eyes that flicker from amused to hungry. “You like being spoiled.”

“I like coffee,” I counter, but my voice is breathier than I intend.

“Keep enjoying.”

Within a few minutes, a waiter sets down our order, and I audibly gasp.

A stack of red velvet pancakes, thick and fluffy, glistens under a swirl of cream cheese frosting, with a dusting of powdered sugar like the season’s first snow. On the side is a pile of crushed pecans and a little pot with warm syrup.

Then there’s my plate—brisket breakfast tacos. It’s more of a mountain of slow-cooked meat and caramelized onions atop a sweet potato hash, dripping in tangy house-made sauce.

“Oh my God.”

“Right?” Eyeing me, Xavier reaches for a fork.

I try to use mine, I really do. But it’s hopeless. The brisket is falling apart, begging to be devoured with fingers. I glance up, hesitating, and catch him watching me.

“I told you I want to watch.” His voice is husky. “Do it.”

So I do. I pick up a piece with my fingers and take a bite. The sauce clings to my lips, and the beef melts like it’s been slow dancing in flavor for hours.

“That’s so…” I trail off, eyes fluttering. “Unfairly good.”

He licks his lower lip. “You licking your fingers is unfairly good.”

I dab my mouth with a napkin.

“Now try the pancakes.” He spears a small portion of the red velvet pancake, adds a touch of syrup and a sliver of pecan, then holds it out to me on his fork.

I lean forward, lips parting.

Slowly he slides it into my mouth.

The taste explodes—rich cocoa, tangy cream, a hint of salt and sweet. I close my eyes and savor it, moaning just a little.

“Jesus, Seraphina.”

That I have any power over him makes me heady with excitement. “This place is amazing.” I eye another food delivery. “I kind of want to eat my way through the menu.”

Xavier leans back in his chair, the sunlight catching the sharp cut of his jaw. “Then maybe we should make this a regular thing.”

My heart skips. We? For the first time, Xavier is talking about the future. And he’s included me in it.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

Part of me is more excited than I dare admit. Another part is terrified.

Finishing the meal and keeping up with the conversation instead of spiraling into fantasy land requires all my self-discipline.

As we finish our meal, Vionna messages that she’s ready anytime he is.

Suddenly I don’t want the morning to end. I’m greedy enough to want the entire day with him. I’m getting used to having him around, and I like it.

Taking my hand again, we make our way back to the apartment building.

“Shall I have Vionna drop you at your old place?”

“That would be amazing. But I’d need to change, and I don’t want to hold you up.”

“We’ll wait.” He releases me. “As long as you don’t wear anything to tempt fate. And don’t give me any fucking excuses about how the AC doesn’t work over there.”

“Yes, sir.” Why the hell did I say that? And why did it feel so natural?

I hurry back upstairs to put on a T-shirt and a pair of leggings. They’re too restrictive, but at least they’re lightweight.

He pushes off the car to open the door for me. “If you think those are better, you’re wrong, Ms. Hollis. I can see the outline of your ass. And you’ll pay for it, later.”

With that, and me blinking in confusion, he helps me into the car.

Against my protests, he walks me back up to my old apartment, his hand warm at the small of my back.

The moment we’re inside, he turns to me. “Do you know what the sit spot is?”

Confused, feeling as if I’ve missed something, I shake my head.

“You’re about to find out.”

Before I can blink, he ensnares my wrist and turns me, just enough to angle me toward the wall beside the door. Not forcefully—but with purpose. He slides one hand down my spine. With the other, he takes hold of my waistband.

“Wait—” My voice breaks as he tugs down the leggings and my panties in one practiced motion, baring my ass to him.

Frantic to escape, I wiggle.

“Be still.” His voice is a dark, threatening caress.

Then he places his palm against the curve of my ass, just below the swell, where my thighs begin. His fingers press in slightly, tracing the outer line of a tender zone I hadn’t realized could feel like this— charged , electric.

“This,” he tells me softly, “is your sit spot.”

The pads of his fingers glide across the skin, sending ripples through me.

“It’s where naughty girls get reminded of the rules.”

And then he spanks me.

Once. Firm, deliberate, with his hand cupped just enough to make the impact resonate.

I gasp—more from the shock of it than the pain. But it’s followed instantly by another, this one a little sharper, a little deeper.

My thighs tremble. My pussy clenches. The sting blooms and lingers like the echo of his name in my head.

Xavier hums his approval. “That’ll leave a little heat. Not too much. Just enough. And to ensure you learns the lesson…”

He spanks me again and again, at least a dozen times, until I’m crying out and sobs are catching in my throat. It’s not pain—not exactly. It’s more of a release I never knew I needed.

“That’s it.” Without warning, Xavier slides his hand between my legs, parting me with dominant intent. His fingers find me slick, open, aching. One glides in. Then another.

“Oh—God?—”

“No.” His denial is a murmur against my ear as he slowly fucks me with his fingers, angling them just right to tease that aching, tender place inside. “No coming. Not here. Not yet.”

He strokes me until I’m right there, on the precipice, quaking in his grasp.

Then he pulls his hand away.

The loss is so abrupt I whimper, offering my hips to him.

He drags my panties back up, slow and taunting. Then my leggings. Smoothing them into place as if nothing had happened.

“As I was saying…” He presses his mouth to the curve of my ear. “Being spanked here” —he gives me another three through my clothing, as if for good measure—“means you’ll feel it—and think of me—every time you sit.”

Then he turns me and tucks a finger under my chin to tilt my face up to his. “You took that like such a good girl.”

I rub my thighs together, the friction delicious and torturous all at once. The tops of them burn, and between that and the deep soreness from everything we’ve done, there’s not a single second of the day I won’t remember that I belong to him.

“And don’t you dare get yourself off when I leave. That was punishment, and you’re meant to learn from it.”

How is that possible when I’m throbbing with need? And all I crave is him?

He brushes his thumb over my lower lip in a final possessive touch. “I will ask, and you can’t lie to me. You give yourself away. I promise you, you don’t want to feel my wrath. Understand?”

If I don’t come, I might die.

“Seraphina?”

“Yes, Xavier. I promise. I won’t touch myself.”

He smiles. “It gives me great pleasure to think of you suffering for me.”

Then— just like that —he straightens, adjusts his belt like the composed billionaire he is.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

My voice is still stuck in the back of my throat.

“Nothing fancy,” he adds, tucking his hands into his pockets, casual as you please. “Unless you wear those leggings or short shorts again. Then we’ll have a different conversation. Make your choices wisely.”

I should. I really should.

Instead I’m wondering what would happen if I chose my only miniskirt.

Am I really that foolish?