Page 171 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

"You do."

"I can't do...this."

"What?"

"Whatever this is." I wave my hand in the air, "Playing house...or rather playing mansion—or whatever it is the other half calls it."

"Is that what you think this is?" He seems perplexed.

"Isn't it?"

"Maybe," he concedes. "Maybe not." He releases me, then steps back. He'd changed clothes, and now his tailored slacks mold his thighs and cling to that spectacular butt as he paces the floor in his Italian shoes—how many of them does he have in his closet, huh?

He drags his fingers through his hair, drawing my attention to how his biceps bulge against his button-down shirt. My mouth waters.Whoa down girl, haven't you feasted on his delectable body enough?And that's the problem. I'd prefer to lick his sculpted abs—and uh, other parts of him—over chocolate. Shit, I am so screwed.

"I am not sure what this is between us," he concedes.

"You're not?" I blink. The alphahole is always bloody sure of himself. He rolls his shoulders now, then cracks his neck, then pivots to face me, with his eyebrows knitted into a look I can only describe as confusion. This is a first.

"I'm not," he confirms my suspicion. "When I walked in and realized you were in danger, when he held that knife to your neck, something changed."

"It did?"

"I thought I'd failed you. If something had happened to you, I could have never forgiven myself."

"You're not my keeper," I mutter. "I've taken care of myself for so long."

"And look where that has gotten you." He scowls.

"What?" I blink, "Did you just say what I think you did?"

"Look," He holds up his hands, "I'm not saying you haven’t tried your best, but I could make things much easier for you with my money, my contacts."

I swallow and something hot stabs at my chest. My throat closes and my eyes burn. Why the hell had I thought anything had changed? Because he'd chased that goddam burglar from my apartment? No, hold on, I'd played a part in that too. Because he'd ensured that my friend would be safe in my apartment? That was because he wanted me close, where he could keep an eye on me, take care of me, control me. That's what this is about.

He wants me here so I can be his little fuck toy. He'd have his way with me... Oh, yeah, I'd enjoy every second of it too.. And then what? He'd throw me away? Well, he'd have paid me for my time...

And I don't want it. I'd rather live in debt for the rest of my life, than be obligated to him.

Not that it wasn't part of the arrangement. I mean, I'd gone into it with my eyes open, not realizing I was giving him what he needed—a way to manipulate me.

Whatever the future might hold for us, whatever there could be between us... As long as the money stands between us...the money I had accepted...it would always be a relationship which would be measured, a connection which had a number attached to it... It’s too finite. Too tangible. Too...restrictive. Something that goes against how I had lived my life, the future I wanted for myself. I want him, all right, but not at the cost of my self-respect.

If I stay, and accept the money, and allow him to treat me like one of his other women, someone whose bond is tainted by the materialistic aspects of life... We don’t stand a chance. Not the way I want.

"This...is all wrong," I say.

He closes the distance between us, "I don't agree."

"I don't want your money."

He stares, "Excuse me?"

"I don't like how it makes everything too easy."

"Are you kidding me?" He scowls. "That's what it is meant for—to pave the way, to achieve dreams, to help you get what you want."

"I can do it on my own." I tip up my chin. "I will achieve my goals, on my own merit."