Page 111 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy

Not everything.

Not the raw fury, the decades of bullshit packed into that confrontation.

But I tell her about the board meeting pushback. About my father’s threats. About his intention to fight me over Project Nightingale,over her.

“He really intends to try and force you out? Over this?” she asks, her eyes wide with concern.

“He intends to maintain control, or inflict maximum damage trying,” I clarify. “It’s not just about you, or Hammond. It’s about me defying him. Choosing a different path. He can’t tolerate that.”

“Christopher, I don’t want my company, my problems, to cause a war between you and your father,” she says earnestly, stepping closer.

“This war started long before you, Lucy,” I assure her grimly. “You just happen to be the territory we’re currently fighting over.” I look down at her, at the genuine worry in her eyes. “But know this. He won’t win. I won’t let him interfere with the partnership. Or with you.”

The air crackles with unspoken things. The vulnerability of the admission hangs there. I didn’t say the words.

Love.

Fuck, I can’t even think it directly. But she has to know. She has to feel it.

“You’ve become… important, Lucy,” I finally admit, the words feeling thick, inadequate. “More important than I anticipated. Or planned for.”

Her eyes soften. She reaches out, her hand resting lightly on my chest, right over my heart. A simple gesture that feels like a brand.

And suddenly, the vulnerability is too much. The lack of control it represents. The echo of my father’s accusations.

Weakness.

I need to reclaim the dynamic. Reassert the order.Myorder.

The raw, physical tension that’s been simmering since the confrontation with my father, mixed withthe need to possess the woman who’s somehow breaching my defenses, surges through me.

My hand covers hers on my chest, gripping it perhaps a little too tightly. Her eyes widen slightly at the sudden intensity.

Good.

“I need you, Lucy,” I growl, my voice low, rough. “Right fucking now.”

I don’t wait for an answer. I back her against the kitchen counter, my body pinning hers, trapping her between the cold marble and my own heat. Her breath hitches. Her eyes darken with a mixture of surprise and dawning arousal.

She doesn’t fight.

She never fights this.

I kiss her hard. Not gentle. Not exploring. A kiss that claims. Demands. My tongue plunges into her mouth, taking possession. She moans softly, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders.

I break the kiss only to trail my mouth down her neck, biting lightly at the juncture of her shoulder. She gasps. My hands are already pushing up the skirt of her sensible CEO dress, finding the silk of her panties beneath. She’s wet. Already fucking wet for me.

The knowledge fuels the fire in my blood.

With one swift movement, I lift her, sitting her on the edge of the counter. Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist. I slide her panties aside, not bothering to take them off completely. My fingers find her slick folds, plunging inside her without preamble. She cries out, arching against my hand.

“Christopher…”

“Mine,” I grind out against her skin. I fumble with my belt buckle, the zipper of mypants. My cock springs free, hard and aching. The head is already slick with pre-cum.

I sheath myself in a condom ripped from the box I keep stashed, ridiculously, even in a kitchen drawer.

Always prepared.