Page 5 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad

He lowers his head until our eyelashes tangle. "I don't think so, baby."

"You’re no Johnny," I stammer.

"Huh." His forehead wrinkles, "Dirty Dancing?"

"Oh," I blink, "you…you placed the reference?"

"Rock star, remember?" He relaxes his hold and I put some space between us.

"Like I could forget. Though, considering you are not on social media anymore, I’m beginning to think that you want the rest of the world to."

"You’ve been stalking me?" His lips curl.

"Of course, not."

"So how did you know that I pulled my social media accounts?"

"It was, uh…all over the news."

He stares at me.

I redden. "You couldn’t miss it. Biggest news of the decade: the rock star who decided to disappear from the media’s eye, cancelled his concert dates, decided to focus on—"

He tilts his head.

"On his personal life," I mutter.

He glares at me. I throw up my hands, "Yes, fine. Okay, so I did read up on everything I found, but only because I loved your earlier albums—"Hello. Understatement of the year. I’ve downloaded all of his music and I listen to it on repeat. Not that I’d ever confess that to him."I admit, I wondered what happened, that you decided to go into hiding..." And how I'd love to help him find his mojo again. He can use his mojo on me anytime. In fact, he can use the other parts of him too, especially the one that’s rumored to be eleven inches long. At least, meeting the rock star has improved my sense of humor. I snicker.

He frowns. "Do I look like I am in hiding?"

I am more interested in what you have hiding in your pants.Gah! I hope he’s not a mind-reader. I step back. He grabs my shoulder and holds me in place, then lowers his head to my neck and sniffs.

"What the—?" I gasp, "Did you just sniff me?"

"Your scent," he rumbles. "It reminds me of clay and vanilla; soft and creamy, yet so spicy." He frowns, "Why the hell do you smell of playdoh?"

"None of your business."

"You work with clay," he accuses me. "Are you a potter?"

"I’m a clay artist, you idiot." In my own time, and when I’m not too busy being a nanny, but he doesn’t need to know that. Not that being a nanny is not something to be proud of. It’s just, he’s an artiste…and famous, and hell, if I don’t want to match up to his creative level.

"Hmm." He takes in my features, then leans in closer, closer. He drags his tongue up the side of my cheek.

My breath catches. That was bold, and weird, and okay, such a dominant gesture… My belly trembles. "You…you…."

"You taste bloody delicious." He smacks his lips. "Can I lick you again?"

Yes.

Yes.

"No." I splutter, then snap back my shoulders. "How dare you?" I blink at him. "How could you—?"

"You can say it." He lowers his voice to a hush.

"What?"