Page 76 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

I could have taken advantage of her that day in the conference room, when she had been spread out, legs wide apart for me. My mouth waters. My groin hardens. A pulse flares to life in my balls.

Of course, my body is right on track to win the Olympic gold medal for being ever-ready to find a way to get aroused at the merest hint of thoughts of her.

"You saying what I think you are, old chap?" Saint drawls.

"Which is?"

"That you are attracted to her? Maybe you’ve developed a soft spot where the poor, defenseless, little bird is concerned."

I stiffen. How does he know that I call her Bird?

"Yeah, you’re not the only one to have eyes on the ground, old chap."

My vision narrows; anger thuds at my temples. "You had me followed."

He clicks his tongue. "Tit for tat… Although the tit I prefer to be thinking about comes fixed to the female anatomy."

"This isn’t about sex."

He raises his eyes skyward, "And that is exactly what I’ve been trying to get through your thick skull, you chutiya."

"What?"

"Fuck her—"

I glare at him.

"Sayin’ it as I see it." He raises his hands. "Since when have you started pussyfooting around the four-letter word, by the way?"

"Not pussyfooting."

"Just pussywhipped."

"Ah, fuck you, dickhead."

"Real creative with your insults too." He shakes his head. "I fear you are crossing over to the dark side, my man. Better get your dick in hand and point it in the right direction."

I flex my jaw so hard, pain slices up my face. "Told you, don’t talk shit about her, not when I am around, and especially when I am not in the room, you feel me?"

His jaw drops open. He scans the space, then walks to the table, grabs an antique letter opener, and slices it across his other palm.

Blood gushes out.

"The fuck you doing?"

"Relax, I don’t have a death wish. Besides, if I wanted to off myself, there are other ways which would ensure I go down in a blaze of glory."

"You really should stop listening to classic rock."

"A much-overrated Bon Jovi song, by the way, but if the shoe fits." He pulls out a handkerchief, wraps it around his hand.

"The point of this entire exercise being—?"

"To prove to myself that I wasn’t dreaming.

"Man, and I thought I was the cold-blooded of the lot?"

"You?" He tilts his head, "You, Sinner, have a conscience. Me, on the other hand, I never hesitate."