Page 23 of Forbidden Billionaire (Titans #7)

Chapter Seventeen

Xavier

Fuck me ragged.

I’m fucking obsessed with her. Seraphina Hollis.

My lovely, impossible, utterly distracting assistant.

With her shy little smiles and sharp mind.

Her stubborn streak wide enough to make traffic veer, and that sweet, submissive side she pretends isn’t there—until she’s moaning my name and begging to come.

After leaving her, something that was damn near impossible, I headed to the office. For the first time in my life, I was unable to concentrate on the files in front of me.

Frustrated as hell at myself, I change and stalk to the elevator and then the fitness center, determined to work her out of my system.

Usually being in here centers me. I’m focused on the view—glass and skyline, downtown Houston glittering like it's pushing me to grind harder, accomplish more.

So I shove everything aside so I can concentrate on my breathing, relentlessly driving my body to be stronger and my brain to be sharper.

But today it’s not working.

Even more annoyed, I hit the assault bike, feet strapped in, hands locked on, the kind of cardio punishment that leaves no room for thinking—just motion and burn.

But even as I pound the pedals, feel the resistance crank and the sweat start to pour, she’s there.

In my head. In my bloodstream. Everywhere.

I thought I could get rid of thoughts of her? Memories of her?

What a goddamn joke.

She’s so far under my skin that I’ll never get rid of her.

And do I want to?

That question lands like a fist. My leg stutters on the downstroke, the pedal jerking beneath me. I recover fast, but I know—I felt that. A misstep that means something. A weakness.

Last night I took her apart.

No. That’s not it.

I worshipped her.

Piece by trembling piece, I tore down every wall she’d ever built around herself. And she let me. Trusted me. Trusted that I’d hold her through the wreckage. And fuck, did I?

The way she tasted when she came on my tongue—sweet, soaked, sacred. The way her breath hitched when I made her ride my face. The way she looked riding my cock—eyes wild, hair tumbling around her flushed cheeks, moaning my name like a prayer she wasn’t sure she should say out loud.

Jesus Christ.

I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in my life. Fast cars. Faster contracts. The signature on a deal that took eighteen months to close. But nothing— nothing —has ever made me feel like the world cracked open the way she did when she came with me inside her.

Then we showered. I could have left. But I didn’t want to. Instead I took her to bed and held her all night. I didn’t detach like I’d done with every other woman I fucked, shucking the intimacy off the moment my orgasm faded.

I wanted the feel of Seraphina’s warm body against mine.

In the morning, I didn’t want distance. I wanted intimacy.

So I figured out the high-tech coffee machine. Of course it’s a Bonds—programmable through the app, voice-activated, integrated with her alarm system and her fridge. Of course it is. The man’s going to own every part of the planet before much longer.

When the last beautiful drop of perfect coffee finally fell, she padded out of the bedroom in my shirt, her hair adorably rumpled, eyes soft, cheeks still flushed from what I’d done to her the night before.

She blinked sleepily at me. And when she saw the coffee, she smiled like I’d built her a castle.

Right then, right there, I fucking knew I was in deep.

Maybe deep enough that I’d never get out.

Instead of running, I suggested we go to breakfast. I didn’t invite her because it seemed like the polite thing to do—God knows I don’t do things to be polite —I asked because I damn well couldn’t tear myself away from her.

We walked down there together, in a soft kind of domesticity I’ve never allowed myself. Never wanted until now.

But I see the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. The way she softens when I praise her. The way she melts when I call her my good girl.

Lord help me, I didn’t need to spank her for putting on those leggings before I left. She hadn’t defied me. She’d covered herself so she wasn’t showing off her thighs and the glorious curve of her rear to any man who wanted to look.

But I needed one more touch, had to drive her to the edge and leave her there, making her suffer the way I was suffering.

Damn it, I want her thinking of me the way I’m thinking of her. Most of all, I want to give her a forceful reminder of who she belongs to.

Fucking ironic, right?

I denied her, but I’m the one on the damn edge, despite the number of times I’d come. I’d had to stop taking her because I’d run out of condoms, not because I’d run out of energy.

Despite my workout, I’m still full of adrenaline and need.

I check my watch.

I’m behind schedule. But Walt is notoriously late, and today I’m counting on it.

After doing a cooldown, I hit the shower.

My cock is thick and aching. All I need to do is curl my fist around it, and I’ll be done in two strokes.

But I resist temptation.

I want thoughts of Seraphina gnawing at the edges of my control, want the constant reminder of her my need for her.

Once I’m slightly less feral, I towel off and suit up in slacks and a shirt I leave open at throat.

Vionna is waiting in the parking garage, and I settle into the back seat to check my email on the drive to my country club.

“Seeing Ms. Hollis tonight?” Vionna meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Think I’ll take her to dinner at Mario’s.”

“Excellent choice, sir.” Even she’s never seen me like this. Courting. If that’s what I’m doing.

All I know is that even spending a few hours apart from Seraphina feels wrong. Like I’ve misplaced something vital.

And that’s pushing me into dangerous territory.

My whole life, I’ve been warned to watch out for women, told they’ll destroy you and everything you’ve built, much like my mother did.

She got under my dad’s skin.

He’d ignored the warning signs until his entire life crashed around him.

Which is no doubt what Walt wants to remind me about. And that’s annoying as hell. I don’t want any discussion about my assistant.

Moments later, my phone vibrates.

Wondering if it’s the woman in question, I pull out the device.

Walt. Running an hour behind.

Classic Walt. He doesn’t just run late—he rewrites time like it’s a shareholder agreement.

Sonofabitch.

Vionna pulls off the freeway and takes the discreet turn no one ever notices.

Thick live oaks crowd the narrow road, their limbs tangled overhead like the fingers of the old-money gods who built this place.

The brick wall’s unmarked. The iron gate even more so.

No signs. No welcome. Just a single guard who scans my credentials and gives a silent nod before pressing the button.

The gate swings open with all the urgency of a man who’s never been told no.

We glide down the long gravel drive, swallowed by green. The grounds stretch out like a secret—lush, sprawling, manicured to within an inch of their soul. Somewhere beyond the trees are the tennis courts, the croquet lawn, the helipad.

And just past that: the heart of the Braes. Stone facade. Hidden entrances. More ghosts than windows.

I take the rear access. Not because I’m hiding. But because I know the rules.

Discretion isn’t a suggestion here—it’s law.

Inside, the bar is hushed and heavy. Wood-paneled walls, soft lighting, and the kind of chairs that remember the generations of men and women who’ve sat in them. Deals here have been inked in scotch and shadows.

Cullen Cresthaven is parked on a stool like he’s been poured onto it.

I slide onto the seat beside him. The leather creaks under my weight, and he doesn’t look up.

“Cresthaven.”

“Blackwell.”

“How’s business?”

Finally he glances at me. Probably because politeness dictates that he should and not because he wants to. “Business?” I prompt.

“It’s fine.”

Brilliant conversationalist tonight. “And the family?”

“Depends who you’re asking about. My brothers? They’re also fine.”

“Your son?” Only child, if I remember.

He swirls the remaining contents in his glass. “That asshole? Lucky I haven’t disinherited him.” His tone says he still might. “Well, from what’s left after his mother was through picking my carcass.”

Without being summoned, the bartender arrives. “Another Bonds, Mr. Cresthaven?”

He nods, and I said, “Same for me.”

We sit for a moment, both of us watching the amber swirl in our glasses.

Then Cullen mutters, almost to himself, “Kelsey didn’t deserve that.”

I glance sideways. “Your daughter-in-law?”

If I remember correctly, Cullen’s ex was named something else much colder. Sharper. A trophy with impeccable lineage, high cheekbones, and a prenup longer than some constitutions.

“Yeah. My daughter-in-law. Soon to be my former daughter-in-law,” he corrects himself. “He never deserved her.”

The union had been the wedding of the year—live-streamed, candlelit, nauseating. Everyone who mattered was there. Including me. Including half the front page of Scandalicious.

And even then, the signs were there.

Harrison Cresthaven, heir apparent and walking liability, had swayed like a drunk at the altar while Kelsey approached. Everyone pretended not to notice.

But his crash out where he was caught on a kiss cam with a woman who wasn’t his wife is still trending, months later.

“If her parents hadn’t forced her into it…” Cullen lets the sentence trail off.

Like so many things in life, filled with what-ifs.

I sip my whiskey, let the burn do its work.

Glancing at his watch, Cullen asks for his check. After signing his membership number, he excuses himself.

Since there’s still no sign of Walt, I figure I have time for a second drink.

And a few more bombs to drop.

Less than five minutes later, one does.