Page 6 of The Billionaire's Secret

"I'll make sure you get everything you deserve." I look her up and down, "The time you spend with me will be the single most pleasurable time of your life."

Her lips part.

Her pupils dilate.

"You feel me?"

She nods.

"Say it."

"I... I feel you," she whispers.

"Good."

I turn to leave. Take one step, another.

"Wait," she calls out.

Bingo, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Give it another second, then turn to glance at her.

"Your jacket." She begins to shrug out of it.

I hold up my hand, "Keep it." I pivot and leave.

What the hell happened there?

Why did she ask me a riddle? How did she know about the ghosts that have haunted my worst nightmares since the incident when six of my friends and I had been kidnapped? And why the hell had I allowed myself to be drawn into further conversation? I'd seen the hurt in her eyes and had wanted to replace it with a twisted pleasure. A primal part of me had wanted her to wear clothes I bought for her. Had wanted to replace memories of any previous encounters with her husband with those that my words had aroused in her.

Does she enjoy it when he fucks her?

I clench my fingers at my sides. What the hell is wrong with me? She's taken, married to another. I should let her go. So why does every pore in my body insist that this is not over?

I head inside the townhouse that belongs to my friend Sinclair Sterling, aka the groom of the wedding. Striding to the bar, I lean over the counter, "Where the fuck did she come from?" I slide my fingers into my pocket, searching for the pack of cigarettes that isn't there. Shit, why did I quit again? Whose bloody idea had it been to give up smoking? I sure could do with a puff now.

Weston tops up my champagne flute. "Who are you talking about?" he asks.

"Victoria," I mutter.

"You mean the woman you've been ogling—"

I snarl.

He snickers, "—I meant ‘staring at’ for the last half hour."

"Fuck off." I reach for the champagne.

"She's married." Weston pours the remainder of the bubbling liquid in his glass.

"Yeah." I raise the flute to my lips.

"Isn't that off limits, even for you?" He overturns the bottle, places it in the bucket of ice.

He's right. I stay away from married women... Normally. Don’t need the kind of emotional baggage that comes with them. Hell no, I prefer my hookups to be neat—swoop in, decimate, get out.

I chug down the drink, then grimace. "Isn't there any real alcohol in this place?"

"That's £20,000 you chugged down there, ol' chap."