Page 178 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

I gasp.

"You... you shaved."

He smirks. Without the hair that covered his chin, his lips are exposed in all their glory, and that square jaw—"You have a dimple in the center of your chin?"

He frowns.

"It's..."

"Don't say it."

"So sweet."

His cheeks redden. "You make me sound like a cupcake."

"I'd love to lick off your cream."

His gaze widens. "Come again?"

"I'll come as many times as you want, if you promise to keep that school-boy look."

He prowls forward, "Care to repeat that?"

“Ah!" I take a step back.

He ambles closer.

I move away, until my butt hits the door. I search for the handle behind me as his long strides eat up the distance between us.

"School boy, huh?" He leans forward on the balls of his feet.

The light haloes his perfect features. That indigo glare envelops me, the scent of testosterone saturates the air, and I swallow.

He raises his hand, tucks a strand of dark hair behind my ear.

I'd opted to keep my natural auburn locks, and he loves it. Loves me as I am. Maybe this is what it means to be into someone? When you miss a person even when he's standing right in front of you, eating you up with his gaze, when you know he's as turned on as you are. And you can't wait for him to kiss you, own you, possess you, write his name on every cell of my body, script his language on my pussy, drag his tongue across the underside of my foot as he sucks on my toes before he bends me over and—

"Shall we shag now, or shag later, Baby?" He waggles his eyebrows.

"Austin Powers." I throw my hands up, "Of all the movies to quote from, you had to choose that one?"

He raises his shoulders, "I'm a guy, what did you expect?"

"Flowers, hearts, chocolate?" I count them off on my fingers. Okay, so you’ve got two out of three there. "Maybe a ring?" I let my lips curve up. "Nah, just kidding on that one." Not. I slap at his shoulder. "Whatever it is you have planned, Sinclair, it won't buy you into my good graces—not after that completely pathetic attempt at trying to be romantic.”

He slides his hand into his pants pocket and his brows draw down.

“Seriously, if you think Austin freakin' Powers is your role model to be amorous then—"

He yanks his hand out, pats his breast pocket.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"It's something."

"Jesus, woman, give me a break, I am trying—"