Page 47 of How to Bang a Billionaire

I was still fighting the urge when my, uh, date spun me around and pressed me into the wall, his breath hot against the side of my neck. When he’d said “go somewhere,” I thought he’d meant back to his room or mine.

But this was…adventurous, right?

Excitingly sleazy and spontaneous.

The wall was moss-slick under my hands. Like it was sweating.

Ew.

My head reeled to match my stomach. Away from the lights, with the music reduced to a distant thump, I felt tired and dizzy and uncertain. Everything was muted: inside and out. I thought I didn’t want to be here, but I couldn’t really remember why, and it didn’t seem so very important, just a low-grade anxiety, sourceless and sluggish.

“I don’t…”

“Oh, come on.” He nuzzled into the crook of my shoulder.

I pulled in a shuddery breath and wished I hadn’t. Now my mouth was full of the taste of fetid air. “Look, I—”

“Stop playing hard to get, you dirty minx.”

It was the kind of shit you could only get away with saying if you were insanely posh. I would probably have enjoyed it under different circumstances, but I wasn’t feeling especially minxish. And only dirty in the literal “I’m not sure this is hygienic” sense of being groped in an alley.

God. What was wrong with me? Why was I doing the sexual hokey-cokey when I’d come here looking for, well, not this exactly? But something like it.

It was what I wanted. Celebrate the end of my finals with—no pun intended—a bang.

Better than sitting around pining for the man who couldn’t decide whether he wanted me or not. The man who made me feel wonderful and awful, sometimes at the same damn time.

And who had made me no promises at all.

It was too late for second thoughts now anyway. I wasn’t a cocktease or a quitter. I was Rizzo, not Sandra fucking Dee.

So why did I feel so…so nothing and everything? So empty and like I was about to cry.

The guy shoved up against me, which meant I got even more intimate with the wall. I pushed back. Wanting away. Wanting him off. But it just brought us closer together. The curve of my arse unintentionally greeting his cock.

He made a breathy approving noise: uh-yah.

I nearly started struggling, but he was just…really solid. Solid and everywhere. And, more than anything, I didn’t want to know how it would feel to be helpless with this stranger. To be forced to confront, in some definite way, that he was bigger than me and stronger than me and I was dependent on his goodwill and cluefulness.

“Stop!” It came out as a wild squeak. Hardly dignified, but at that point, dignity was way down the list of my concerns.

He eased up a little and let me swivel around. I stared blearily into what I should have found a reasonably handsome face: square-jawed and symmetrical, classically English.

“Oh, don’t be such a girl.” He put his hands on either side of me, once again making me far too aware of him for all the wrong reasons. “Getting me all frisky for nothing.”

“Um, sorry…I’m just…” I was in control of this. I had to be. Because I didn’t know what it meant if I wasn’t. I squirmed a hand between our bodies, fumbling for his cock. “How about you let me…” Fuck, I hadn’t meant to say it like that. I didn’t want this to be any sort of echo. It had nothing to do with Caspian. It was its own thing. That I would never, ever have to think about again.

“Let you what?” Hard to tell in the gloom but he seemed both lustful and annoyed. It seemed, just then, like an impossibly unpleasant combination.

“Get you off?”

“Well, mind you make it good.”

He pawed heavily at my shoulder and I realized, with a fresh bout of nausea, that I probably wasn’t going to be able to get away with a hand job. Even a really stellar hand job.

I steeled myself—now was not the time to get all sick and shaky—and slid down the wall.

Which was when…well, I didn’t know exactly what happened.