Page 134 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Abby

"Are you pissed at me? Is that why you haven’t spoken a word to me since we left the stadium?

" I glance at Cade’s profile. His jaw is hard, his expression remote.

He’s glowered silently since hustling me out of the dressing room at Lords and into his car.

We’ve been driving for half an hour, during which time he’s stared through the windshield, scowling.

When he doesn’t reply, I lean over and switch on the radio.

"So, Ivy, tell me, have you ever had a secret crush on anyone? A forbidden crush maybe?" The male radio host asks.

"Now, Wolfgang, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?" Ivy chuckles. "Why are you curious anyway?"

"We’ve been co-hosts for what, three years now?"

"Three and a-half, actually," Ivy retorts.

"Counting the number of days you spend with me, I see?" Wolfgang says in a smirky-pants voice.

I chuckle.

Ivy snorts. "More like counting the days because I’d have preferred to spend them with someone else."

Wolfgang laughs. "Touché, but I digress. My point is, we’ve known each other for so long, but you’ve never once mentioned if there’s anyone special in your life. It makes me wonder—"

"What?" she asks, cautious.

"Whether you aren’t nursing a broken heart? Or perhaps, you have a special someone in your life you’re holding out for? Or—"

"Or?" Her voice is almost bored.

"Or perhaps, you can’t stop thinking about a certain handsome co-host of yours when you leave the studio."

Ivy pretends to laugh. "No one can accuse you of being humble, Wolf."

"No one can say you aren’t…smart and pretty and clever and—"

"Nope."

"Excuse me?" He seems taken aback.

"The answer is no."

"Didn’t ask a question."

"You were going to."

"I was." He blows out a breath. "If you’re not attached..."

"I am."

Silence. Then... "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I’m attached. He was my brother’s best friend, and—"

A thick silence fills the air as I lean over and shut off the radio.

I glance sideways, expecting him to say something, but other than a nerve that throbs at his temple, he stays still.

The muscles of his shoulders bunch; the tendons of his throat are outlined in sharp relief.

He eases the car onto Tottenham Court Road, then into Soho.

He pulls up in front of a building I haven’t been to before, but which I know houses Zara’s office.

"How did you know that—"

"That my sister offered you a job yesterday, and that you emailed your resignation to your company and were looking to start at Zara’s PR agency today?" He finally turns his mismatched gaze in my direction, and my breath catches.

Every time he looks at me, it’s like he can see right through my carefully constructed image to the scared woman I am inside.

Every time he takes in my features, it’s as if I can sense his touch on my skin.

Every time I’m near him, it’s as if I can’t stop myself from saying or doing something I’m going to regret later.

"So, you’re spying on me?”

"Why ask me a rhetorical question?"

I blink. Something deep inside flares to life. My heart begins to race. "So, you are spying on me.”

When he doesn’t reply, I swallow. My pulse rate spikes. A bead of sweat slides down my spine. I’ve spent my life around mafia men, so it’s not too much of a leap in my mind when I ask, “D-do you have eyes on my apartment?”

He merely stares. His gaze holds mine and oh, god, every cell in my body seems to come alive.

Every nerve-ending is pulsing and ready, open to absorb every last drop of his presence, his taste, his scent, his presence.

The more time I spend with him, the more I want him.

The more he treats me like I’m an irritant, the more I can’t stop myself from thinking of him.

The more he reveals how depraved he is, the more I’m attracted to him.

Surely, something is wrong with me that I find everything that he says and does only adds to his magnetism. I must be a masochist.

And I cannot show just how much I’m affected by him.

If I do, he’ll lose any shred of respect he has for me.

If I reveal just how much he’s succeeded in unbalancing me, he’ll only push his advantage.

And would that be so bad? Would it be so terrible to lose the last dregs of my individuality and give in to him completely?

To subsume myself in him and forget about the past and what I did to him?

To redefine our relationship, once and for all? And then what?

He’ll walk away from me, and I’ll be left with nothing.

No, I can’t give in to him. Not now. Not ever.

I must hold out and wait until some of his anger fades.

If that means he continues to use me as he has in the past few days, so be it.

I’ll share my body with him, but my heart?

No way. I’ll hold onto the part of me that’s still me and not share that with him.

Not unless he proves himself worthy of it.

I lock my fingers together, then tip up my chin.

"H-how did you get access to my apartment?"

"You don’t get to ask the questions."

"You do realize it’s an infringement on my privacy to do so?"

His mouth curls. "Are you going to tell me what’s right and wrong?"

My stomach trembles. My guts twist like someone’s tied them up in a cat’s cradle.

"Do you have to keep bringing up the past? Can’t you forgive—"

"Unhook your seatbelt."

"Wh-what?" I blink.

"You deaf, woman? Unhook your belt, or I’ll do it for you." He begins to reach over, and I spring into action. I press the release button, and my belt loosens.

He swipes out his arm, curls his fingers around my nape, then pulls me down so my head is in his lap.

"What are you doing?" I gasp.

"Punishing you for going against my explicit instruction not to talk to that journalist."

"That’s my job. It’s what I do best."

His gaze narrows. "And he was looking at you like you were a piece of flesh. Which you are, but no one gets to misuse you like that, except me."

"But—"

"Unzip me."

I stiffen. "You’re joking, right?"

"Do I look like I’m joking?" His grip tightens in my hair. My scalp tingles. Pinpricks of heat shudder down my spine, and a heavy throbbing drums between my thighs.

Asshole. I lower the zipper on his jeans, and his cock springs free. It’s big and thick and already swollen with a bead of pre-cum oozing from the tip.

"Take it; take all of it in."

My pussy clenches. I wrap my fingers about the base, then draw it into my mouth.

His entire body shudders. A feeling not unlike power courses through my veins.

My toes curl. I’m giving him a blowjob. I don’t want to do it.

Yet, I can’t help but be turned on. How can I be so turned on?

Probably because he hasn’t let me come. That has to be the only explanation why my thigh muscles clench, why my nipples are so tight they seem to stab through my blouse, and why I squeeze my legs together as I lower my head and close my mouth around him.

His entire body stiffens. His muscles become an impenetrable mass of granite. I lick up the underside of his shaft, and he curses, "Fuck, Sparrow."

Now, a thrill of power courses through my veins.

He might be holding my hair, but I’m the one with his balls in my grasp.

Literally. And my touch affects him. He’s not impervious to me.

He may be trying to punish me, but I have power over him, too.

I cup his balls and his thigh muscles jump.

His belly turns to iron. I pull back, then tilt my head and take him down my throat.

"Jesus, fuck!" He pulls on my hair, and the pinpricks of pain stutter down my spine. Moisture blooms in my core. I massage his balls and hum around the column of his cock.

A growl rips from his chest. The next second, he thrusts up and into my mouth, stabbing down the column of my throat. I gag. The breath whooshes out of him. He wraps the fingers of his free hand around my throat. "Look at me."

I manage to angle my head enough that I can glance up and into those haunting, mismatched eyes of his. We may be on opposite sides, but when it comes to speaking with our bodies, we have our own secret language. Tears squeeze out from the corners of my eyes. A nerve jumps at his jawline.

He hauls me back by my hair, enough that his cock is poised on my lips. Then he bares his teeth. "I’m going to fuck your face."