Page 44 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to sleep with you.”

“And who would also get something out of it.”

“I would get something out of it.” It was too dark to read his expression, but he sounded sad. Which wasn’t exactly a turn-on for me. “I would dearly love to make you feel good, Arden.”

“I…uh.” Help, I had no idea how to respond.

My initial instinct was that this was a Fibonacci Sequence of a bad idea, an ever-expanding spiral of infinite nope for both of us. But I didn’t want to just dismiss him either. I’d learned from George that sex came in many colours—even if Ilya wasn’t interested in fucking the way I was, that didn’t mean I got to second-guess his choices. Which was the other thing. I had to believe thesewerehis choices. That who he was, and what he wanted, existed separately from Lancaster Steyne—something Caspian had never been able to accept for himself. Or even accept from me.

And yet Ilya wasn’t Caspian. I didn’t know him well enough to understand what would help him and what would hurt him—and while it wasn’t on me to make those calls on his behalf, I got to make them for me. I couldn’t deny there was a kinky appeal in the idea of being sexually indulged by a gorgeous man solely committed to my pleasure, but given we’d both been semi-recently dumped by Caspian, there was no guarantee the whole business wouldn’t devolve into a two-way pity-fuck of woe and desperation.

Which…just. No.

Maybe I’d keep it for a fantasy—the sort of fantasy where I’d be wearing riding boots, and nobody was real or suffering or alone.

“Would you take it the wrong way,” I asked, “if I turned you down?”

“What would be taking it the wrong way?”

“Thinking I didn’t like you. Or that you weren’t insanely attractive and desirable.”

“I’m not interested in whether you like me or find me attractive.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

He turned onto his back again, an arm coming up to deepen the shadows across his face. “I expressed that badly.”

“You think?”

“It’s simply that I prefer to be useful.”

We fell silent. I wasn’t sure there was much else to say. But apparently my mouth had other ideas. “You know, there are people out there who’ll get who you are and what you’re into.”

“I was satisfied being Caspian’s assistant.”

“And you were brilliant at it. But you don’t have to, like, sublimate yourself into your job. I mean, obviously you should also get a job at some point. Jobs are good. But you can have more.”

I felt him shift a little restlessly beside me. “I’m not sure where this is going.”

“You deserve to be with someone who wants all of you.”

“Oh.” He let out a soft breath. “You’re talking about a relationship. I think you’re trying to be kind, but love and romance mean very little to me.”

“Only because Lancaster Steyne treated you like a toy and Caspian couldn’t cope with what you represented, so he rejected everything you offered him.”

“On the contrary, my feelings on this matter precede both Caspian and Mr. Steyne. And”—his tone sharpened—“you have profoundly mischaracterised my relationship with Caspian.”

“How?” I asked. “You care about him and he’s never acknowledged it.”

“What does that matter? He let me stay with him anyway. He gave me a job to help me find a sense of purpose. And, I suspect, to ensure I would always be able to provide for myself in future. So that I would never be a whore or…a toy again.”

How easy it was, when you were hurt, to lose track of the goodness of people. The truth was, I’d seen Caspian act in anger and fear and pain, but I’d never seen him be selfish. And now I was ashamed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have judged your relationship.”

“It’s all right. I know you mean well.” Ilya turned his face into the crook of his elbow—I think he might have been crying again. “But working for Caspian has been invaluable to me. Though professionally speaking, it will not be difficult to f-find another position.”

“Well, that’s good,” I responded way too heartily. The problem was, I really wanted to comfort him, but I had no idea how to go about it. That is, I knew how to be generically consoling but not how to be specifically consoling to Ilya.

He didn’t reply and I didn’t blame him. “Well, that’s good” had been a pretty rubbish thing to say.