Page 4 of Forbidden Billionaire (Titans #7)

Chapter Three

Seraphina

The elevator hums, carrying me too quickly up to Blackheart’s penthouse. Each floor speeds past, a countdown to humiliation rather than salvation.

The maid’s uniform clings to me, its starched collar biting my neck.

My sneakers—my one rebellion—scuff the polished floor as I step out at 6:59 a.m.

I knock. Then wait.

There’s no answer.

Of course.

He won’t make this easy, will he?

Maybe he’s not even in there. Or maybe he’s sleeping like the smug bastard he is. Closing my eyes, wishing I were anywhere else, I use my key to let myself into the demon’s domain.

Inside, the blinds are open, and sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The penthouse smells of fresh-ground coffee, and God, do I need a cup. I barely slept, and then because I was worn out, I hit the snooze button so many times that I barely had enough time to get across town and clock in.

“Hello?” When there’s no answer, I take a couple of steps, the furnishings and modern art pieces all whispering of wealth that seems to taunt my bank balance that’s now at $12.

47. Thank God I have a full tank of gas.

That will get me to work for the next few days and allow me to make my food and coffee deliveries after hours.

A little cautiously, I move forward. After all, I don’t want to catch Blackheart in the shower or getting dressed. I’m not sure I could survive seeing him naked. “Mr. Blackwell?”

I wait.

Lila’s words from last night echo in my mind. “Show him you’re not that intern he broke.” But after everything that happened last time I saw him, I’m not sure I can.

Slowly I make my way to the kitchen, and he’s there, leaning against the marble counter, his tailored suit sharp against the morning light.

Bastard makes a show of checking his very expensive Bonds watch. “It’s two minutes after the hour.”

I bite back my reply. Do all billionaires think they own the entire world and everyone in it?

He rakes his dark eyes over me, slowly and deliberately, lingering on the swell of my chest and tracing the curve of my hips.

My skin prickles, and a traitorous heat pools inside me, despite my hate.

“Good morning, Ms. Hollis. Glad to see you actually want a job.”

He’s pushed me too far.

I bring my chin up. “I’m sure security can check the log. You’ll find I entered the building at 6:45 and your suite at 6:59 a.m.”

“Do you always take your time actually getting to work once you clock in?”

Turns out, I’m incapable of keeping my mouth shut—even though I should. “You planning another punishment, Mr. Blackheart?”

“Blackheart?”

He roars the word.

Oh fuckity fuck.

Why did I let my temper get the best of me?

He pushes away from the counter and closes the distance in two strides, gripping my shoulders, his fingers digging in, spinning me to pin me against the wall with his body, his heat a furnace searing through my uniform.

My knees weaken as his hard chest presses against mine, trapping me in his orbit.

His dark eyes are searing, and they lock on my mouth.

Slowly, deliberately, he cups my jaw and tilts my face up. His cologne—woodsy and sharp—wraps around me. “That mouth of yours, Seraphina, always gets you in trouble.”

Fear knots my breath so tight I might choke.

“I…” Though I’m desperate to escape, my body betrays me by leaning into his heat. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“And yet I don’t hear an apology.” A dark smile toys with his lips. “Would you like to say you’re sorry?”

Why am I pushing him?

When I remain silent, his lips crash onto mine, deep and devouring, claiming me with a hunger that steals my breath. Frantically I grip his lapels, needing an anchor in a world that he tipped upside down

After I’d arrived home after meeting Lila last night, I’d taken a long shower. Even though I was yawning, I still wasn’t able to settle down to sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, thoughts of him slipped into my mind. The harder I tried to shove them away, the more persistent they became.

After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, I got back up and watched a little TV, flipped through a magazine. Then, knowing I shouldn’t but unable to stop myself, I picked up my phone and searched his name.

The recent headline on my favorite gossip site, Scandalicious, almost made me drop my phone: PREDATOR KING’S COZY NIGHT ON THE TOWN WITH BIANCA LOCKHART.

What the heck was he thinking, cozying up to the sister of the Lockhart CEO? The article went on to say that Bianca completely denied having a fling with him.

But that wasn’t the only time he was mentioned recently.

There were lots of breathtaking pictures of him out on the town with different women, and never the same one twice.

So why would he have any interest in someone like me?

Finally, when I was so exhausted that I couldn’t keep my eyes open, I made my way back to bed, only for my eyes to pop open again. Damn him.

No matter how many times I buried my head beneath my pillow or told myself I hated him—my legs kept pressing together, slick and desperate.

I kept replaying our earlier scene at his penthouse, but I’m not just remembering, I’m expanding on what happened. I see him standing over me as I sleep in his bed. His crisp, white shirtsleeves are rolled up, and his wrist bones are cutting against thick veins.

His massive hand is braced on my lower back as he forces me to bend for him. As if I’m his to do with as he pleases.

And I let him.

Want him.

My fingers trembled as I shoved the covers down. The room was stifling, Houston’s swampy heat swirling with the heat he created.

I peeled off my shorts, leaving only the damp cotton of my panties. The gusset clung to me—humiliating evidence of what I was. What he made me.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Don’t think of him. But my mind defied me, summoning him in brutal clarity…the wicked gleam in his eyes when he had told me to wiggle my hips for him, like I was already broken.

I slipped my hand down. I was already wet, throbbing at the center. My breath caught, shame clashing with a need that felt bigger than me.

God, stop.

I can’t.

I imagined his palm first, the sting of it landing sharp, then soothing.

Then I heard it: the rasp of his belt sliding from his trousers. I pictured him doubling over the leather in his big hand, testing its weight.

I was gasping then, one hand covering my mouth to keep the sounds in as my hips lift into my touch.

He was so close, body heat rolling off him. Then he pressed the leather against my skin, not too hard at first, just enough to make me arch. To make me beg.

I slid my fingers through my slick folds, circling my clit once, twice. God. The memory of his voice made me shudder. “Naughty girls get punished.”

I bit my lip. With my free hand, I gripped the sheets, anchoring me to that tiny, cheap bed.

I imagined him leaning down, that low growl in my ear: Louder, Seraphina. Let me hear you cry for me.

My hips bucked helplessly as I swirled my fingers faster, desperate for the rush I swore I’d never crave from him again. In my mind, his big hand slid between my thighs, replacing mine—so much rougher, so much more demanding. I was not in control. I was at his mercy.

The belt cracked again in my fantasy, the heat blooming across my ass just as my fingers flicked faster on my clit. The humiliation of it all made my orgasm crest higher. I shouldn’t want this. I did. God help me, I do.

My back bowed off the mattress as pleasure crashed through me, as sharp as it was hot and humiliating. His name caught in my throat but never escaped. I was not that far gone. Not yet.

When it was over, I lay there shaking, breath hitching, thighs sticky. The wet between them was a brand, a promise, a curse.

I curled onto my side, hating how empty I felt without his touch. Without his control. I told myself it was just an itch to scratch.

But now, in this moment, with the pressure of his demanding mouth on mine, I know the truth.

I crave him. No matter how stupid that is.

His kiss consumes me, fiercer than anything I can fantasize about.

The billionaire bastard sweeps his tongue determinedly against mine, making me moan.

He tastes of strong, bitter coffee and temptation that I can’t afford.

I lean into him, hating how I crave more. I’m close to offering him everything he wants.

But what then? He discards women like yesterday’s trash. And if he has any loyalty at all, it’s to himself and no one else.

I’m not this stupid.

Jolted back to reality, I wrench away from him, gasping, my lips burning, my heart pounding. “That wasn’t part of the deal.” My voice is shaky instead of commanding. But instead of shoving against his chest, my fingertips are still curled around the fabric of his suit coat.

My cheeks burn. How can I be this woman who is melting for the man who ruined me. Three years ago, his cold dismissal— “You’re mistaken, Ms. Hollis” —shattered my world. Now his kiss threatens to break what’s left. I can’t want this. I can’t want him .

“Was it not?”

I blink, lost.

“You said this wasn’t part of the deal.”

Grateful for the reprieve my enemy has tossed me, guessing it comes with a price, I push my hands against his immovable chest. “I’m here as your maid. Not your?—”

“Not my…?” Waiting, he quirks a brow.

“Toy.”

Very deliberately, he leans forward. His voice is soft, and threat edges his words. “If you think for even one moment that I’m playing with you, you’re very wrong.”

He has to be. What else does a dark-hearted CEO want with a maid he’s already ruined once?

He brushes his thumb across my swollen lower lip.

And neither of us has taken a step back.

“Coffee?”

The man makes my head spin. “What?”

“We have a lot to go over.”

“Despite what you may think, I’m adept at cleaning.”

“Mmm.”

Is he disagreeing or agreeing? Confounding man is impossible to figure out.

His gaze flicks to my lips, still swollen, and I hate how my pulse races.

“Cream and sugar?”

With that, he releases me and moves away.