Page 21 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

“What do you listen to when you work?” West’s smile never wavers as he plucks the bud from my ear before placing it into his.

I hold my breath. No one has ever cared to know what I listen to when I work.

I place the bud resting in my hand back into my other ear.

“Pretty Slowly” by Benson Boone plays quietly, and we stare at each other for a few beats, listening.

West’s smile fades, and he closes his mouth. His neck bobbles as the chorus starts back up. Benson’s raw voice rings in my right ear, but West’s breath floats in my other.

Intense heat runs through my veins when he lifts his hand again, this time grabbing mine. He slips the other around my waist, pulling my hips against his. I gasp, not doing anything to stop this.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, searching his face for answers I know he won’t give.

The steady, heavy beat of the music playing downstairs vibrates through the creaking floorboards as I follow West’s lead. He takes a step to his right, then the left.

We’re dancing.

His hand on my lower back is a branding iron.

My body hums, electricity crackling across my skin as he moves us back and forth.

With each sway, we’re close to bumping into the shelves on either side of us.

We bounce between the stacks of boxes and kegs, but West doesn’t seem to notice or care. His eyes don’t leave my face .

The song is a mixture of slow and fast beats, and West doesn’t miss a single one, keeping up with the fast-changing rhythm. I giggle as he moves gently when the song slows, then quickens when the beat picks up.

My cheeks grow sore from smiling, but as the song comes to an end, the reality of this moment kicks in.

West’s hands are on me, and I don’t want them to leave.

I feel safe and cared for. The hopelessness I often feel is gone.

West has given me all the clarity without ever helping put anything together. Again, how is this possible?

Looking at West now, he’s no longer my dead husband’s brother. He’s simply West.

My hand is wrapped across his shoulder, and I slide it down the front of his chest. His muscles harden beneath my touch, and I move lower, trailing my fingers over the curves of his abs.

We stop dancing, and I can’t make sense of what I’m doing anymore. I can’t stop the pull he has on me.

The song changes to “Fade” by Lewis Capaldi.

West’s hand moves from my lower back to the front of my jean shorts. His fingers slip down my hip and over the torn fabric. Leaning forward, he brings his mouth close to mine.

“West.” His name falls from my mouth with what little sanity I have left in me.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, his lips torturingly teasing. If he were to lean forward even just a fraction of an inch, he’d be on my mouth.

I stick my tongue out and sweep it across my lips. My nerves are all over the place. So are my eyes. I don’t know where to look or what to think. “What is it?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

His confession rocks me to my core. Brazen and bold. I don’t know what to do with this information. I should correct him. Tell him this isn’t right, but I don’t want to .

Because it doesn’t feel wrong.

It feels right.

It feels so right.

“What do you mean?” I squeak out. “Since the day on Holt’s yacht?”

“No,” he hums. “Before then.”

It’s a vague answer that does something to my insides. A fuse sparks inside my stomach, my chest, between my legs. It’s impossible for it not to when we’re in a tight space like this one.

“You’re beautiful, London.”

“I’m not.” It’s a bit of a lie. I’ve always thought I’ve been beautiful, but as far as others are concerned, that’s another story. A knee jerk reaction for someone who always seems to attract men who never take the time to appreciate.

“You are,” he muses with wandering hands. “You’re beautiful in the way that makes my heart ache. The way your eyes light up when you’re talking about something you love. The way you smile, and suddenly two dimples appear out of nowhere on those smooth cheeks of yours.”

“West…” I didn’t realize how much he’d noticed about me.

“It’s impossible to think straight when I’m around you, and when you walk away from me, I can’t help but stumble over finding the words to try make you stay. Anything to make you stay.”

I grasp onto his shirt, clutching onto the expensive fabric, using it as an anchor.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his fingers grazing my bare skin, below the torn hem of my shorts. He’s teasing my inner thigh, and I can’t bring myself to look up. I focus on his chest and my breathing, his confession still ringing in my ears.

I can’t think straight with his hands on me.

“Yes,” I say. “No. ”

“Which is it, London?” His voice is husky and weighted. Every word is laborious, pained, and ravenous. “Yes… or no?”

I lean back against the shelf and let his hand wander. He slips it under one of the legs of my shorts and flits his fingertips over the front of my lace panties.

The sensation makes me weak in the knees, and I can’t help the moan that passes my lips. I sag, but West catches me by the back of my neck. His fingers clamp around it, digging into my flesh, sending a jolt of excitement down my spine.

The song playing in our ear changes to “One of The Girls” by The Weeknd.

“We shouldn’t,” I tell him, betraying my body. I don’t understand what I’m saying, but it doesn’t feel right. That’s how I should be feeling. At least not here, right now. Not in this cramped space. Not when West is technically my boss.

“You’re right.” He growls. “We shouldn’t.”

“Okay.” My eyes flutter. “Then, stop.”

His hand abruptly stops moving, frozen under the bottom of my shorts.

My eyes snap open. “What are you doing?” I breathe.

“You told me to stop.” His eyes narrow, hardening with every agonizing second that passes without him touching me.

“I’m not sure I want you to stop.” I roll my hips, urging him to press his finger closer. Harder.

He does, taking my signal.

“You said we shouldn’t.” He slips his fingers deeper, his entire hand now pressed between my thighs.

“I know,” I moan, rolling my hips again. “We shouldn’t.”

“Give me one good reason this shouldn’t happen.”

He isn’t moving fast enough. I’m hungry for his touch, and he’s too cautious. Too methodical. There’s a painful need growing between my thighs.

Heath. Heath should be a good reason, but he isn’t. I’ve known West for less than two months, but I know what I feel for him is infinitely more than what I felt for Heath. Where Heath was cold, West feels as if I’m barreling toward the sun with no way to stop.

“I can’t,” I tell him confidently.

“You can’t?” he asks, his brow deepening.

My mind is foggy, and I have to ask him to repeat the question.

“You can’t think of one reason?” he asks again, running his forefinger along my slit, over the mesh fabric. He’s already coated in my wetness.

I’m going to fucking explode already.

I tip my head back and breath heavily as his chest rumbles with a hungry grunt. “No,” I clip. “Absolutely none.”

Tucking his fingers under the bottom of my panties, he slips his fingers along my wet slit.

“Jesus, fuck. Your cunt is already weeping for me.” He buries two fingers inside me, and I’m gasping for air. I reach behind me to the shelves above my head. My fingernails scratch into the metal, and I roll onto the balls of my feet, rocking my hips with West’s touch.

I look at him with hooded eyes as he pumps his fingers into me.

“I have a confession,” he whispers, leaning into my ear.

Another one? How many of these has West been keeping from me?

His lips brush against the shell of my ear when he says, “I can’t give you any, either.”

I want him to kiss me. I want his mouth on mine. I want more of this feeling. Not knowing what it is or where it’s coming from, I welcome it with open arms.

West was a stranger to me less than two months ago, though he’s never felt like one. I’ve never felt more myself in any part of my life than I do with him.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, groaning into my ear.

I can tell it’s difficult for him to not completely let loose. He’s like a caged animal, waiting for his moment of freedom.

“I want you to kiss me.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“Tell me where ,” he orders.

I swallow the fire burning in my throat. I’m not lying. I want him to kiss me everywhere. My mind scrambles to pick just one place. One I know I need touched by his lips. More than just my mouth, even though we haven’t kissed yet.

His hot breath brushes my ear again, and I squirm with his fingers pumping inside me.

“I want you to kiss me down there.”

“Where? Say it, London. I want to hear you say it.” He jerks his hips forward, pressing his hardened erection against my thigh, his hand still moving inside me. He hooks his fingers, and I quiver when he reaches deeper.

My jaw drops, and my mouth falls open.

“Here?” he asks, placing his lips to the spot underneath my ear. He breathes in through his nose, and my skin breaks out in a shiver.

“No,” I tell him.

Fire sparks in my chest with anticipation.

He chuckles, and I feel him smirk against my skin. He brings his mouth lower to my collarbone. “Here?”

I swallow again, frantically licking my lips. I’m thirsty. Thirsty for West. My need is painful.

“No.” My voice strains.

West lowers himself, bringing his mouth down to my hardened nipple poking through my T-shirt.

I’m wearing a bra, but the thin, mesh fabric does nothing to conceal what’s underneath.

I hate bulky thick bras, and for the first time, I’m really fucking thankful there isn’t much between my breast and West’s mouth.

He flicks his devious eyes to mine as his mouth pops open. “Here?”

His fingers move quickly inside me and I’m already quivering, nearing my orgasm. His palm cups me, rubbing just above my clit. There isn’t enough pressure. I want more.

“West.” His name drips from my mouth on a moan. “Harder.”