Page 190 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

He holds my gaze for a few seconds more. He doesn’t seem very convinced.

“If you need any help—”

“I’m good. Really.”

His eyebrows draw down. “You sure about that?”

No.

No.

I jerk my chin.

He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing those thick dark locks further.

His eyelashes are full, his cheekbones so high it’s a wonder they don’t cut through the skin, and his mouth.

.. Oh, god, his mouth. I hadn’t noticed that pouty lower lip, the thin upper one, the overall shape so gorgeous.

Combined with his broad shoulders, the pecs outlined by his shirt, the way his biceps strain the sleeves, and those veins that pop against his forearms…

"You’re gorgeous," I burst out, then wince. I didn’t just say that. I said that.

A slow smirk curls his lips, and goosebumps shower across my skin. Liquid heat pools in my lower belly, and I glance away.

"Thank you," he murmurs in a low, deep voice that twists my insides further.

I peer up at him from under my eyelashes and say, "You’re not from here."

"But you are."

I bite down on my lower lip, and his gaze grows heavy. That heat in my lower belly intensifies. It spreads to my extremities. My arms and legs tremble. Oh, my god, why do I feel like I’ve been thrust into a sauna, then dumped into a vat of cold water?

"I’m going to be a singer someday," I announce, then slap my hand to my forehead. "Forget I said that. I’m not sure why I’m babbling like this."

"A singer, huh?"

I lower my hand and scan his features. He’s not laughing at my crazy pronouncement. Not like my family has every time I’ve stated it to them. Aside from my sister Olivia, who always encourages me to dream big, the rest of my extended family always looked askance when I talk about my dreams.

"I heard you earlier on the beach," he says slowly.

Heat flushes my cheeks. "You heard me?"

He nods, "You’re good. Better than good. You have a certain innocence, yet a depth to your voice that’s compelling."

I angle my head in his direction and ask, "You think I can sing?"

His smile widens. "I think if you pursued it, you could be famous."

Warmth pools in my chest. No one has ever told me that. No one has ever appreciated my talent. I’ve known it deep inside, of course, but to have someone else confirm it to me means so much.

"Are you a singer, too?"

He barks out a laugh. "Only in the shower, and badly, at that. No, I’m in the most narcissistic of all professions. I’m an actor."

"Ah." That explains his looks and that ripped build of his. I may only be a teenager, and a sheltered one at that, but even I’ve seen enough movies on TV to know that the man standing in front of me has the kind of looks and personality that would stand out on screen. "Have I seen you in anything?"

He smirks and replies, "Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time before you do."

"You’re confident of yourself," I scoff. He has reason to be, but still, isn’t it difficult to be successful as an actor? Though if anyone can make it, it’d be this gorgeous guy.

"Your singing is what saved your life."

"Eh?" I scowl.

"I heard you singing and headed in your direction; that’s when I noticed the men surrounding you and had to intervene."

"Th-th-hank you." Oh, no, not the stammering again; not now.

"What were you doing walking alone at two in the morning?

I frown. I’ve had enough of my family censoring my movements, without this stranger asking me about them.

"What’s it to you?" I jut out my chin.

He arches an eyebrow. "You could have been,” he pauses, “you know."

"But I wasn’t."

"Pretty close."

I fold my arms across my chest, mirroring his stance.

He’s right, but I don’t want to dwell on that.

He saved me—it’s true. And maybe I do owe him.

The least I can do is answer his questions.

But something about the arrogance that clings to him, that hooked aristocratic nose of his, the way he’s watching me with a judgmental expression.

.. It makes me want to defy him. "But I wasn’t.

You came at the right moment, and that’s the point. "

"That isn’t the point," he growls, then lowers his arms to his sides. "I may not be there the next time. What then?"

"It won’t happen again." I firm my lips.

"The confidence of youth," he snorts.

"You’re not that old, yourself."

"Is that a sneaky way of finding out my age, little girl?"

"I’m not so little."

"You’re what, eighteen?"

"Seventeen." The truth bursts out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Oh, shoot, why couldn’t I have lied and pretended I was eighteen?"

"You’re seventeen?" He takes a step back clearly wanting to put distance between us. "You’re a teenager. My tastes run to women, and bloody hell—" He runs his fingers through his hair again. "You’re distraught. Perhaps, still in shock."

"I’m not in shock. I know what happened, I know what those men wanted with me—"

"Oh, yeah?" He slaps his palms on his hips. "What do you think they wanted to do to you, pray tell?"

"Th-th-they…" I bite the inside of my cheek. I will not stammer, will not stammer. Oh, god, not now. Not when I want to appear grown up and wise beyond my years to this man.

"How old are you?" I ask.

He seems taken aback by my question, then lowers his chin to his chest. "I’m too old for you."

"How old?" I set my jaw. "You’re what, twenty?"

"Twenty-one."

I flick my hair over my shoulder. "You’re only four years older."

He scoffs, "And this is bullfuck.”

H-o-l-y shit. He said, fuck... Aloud. I’ve read that particular swear word in my smutty books but never come across anyone who used it to swear aloud in real life.

He groans, "Don’t tell me my swearing shocks you?"

"Of course not.” I lie.

"You expect me to believe that?" He plants his hands on his hips again. "And don’t change the topic. We’re talking about why you were wandering on the beach at that time of the night dressed like that." He stabs a finger in my direction.

I look down at my nightshirt covered chest, over which the sheet is draped, then back at him.

"So, it’s my fault that I was attacked? That th-th-those m-m-men—" I burst out crying. Oh, my god, how embarrassing! I’m weeping bucketsful in front of this hot stranger who looks exactly like one of the guys from my smutty books.

And he found me in such a horrible situation, too.

I bury my face in my hands, and weep and weep.

At some point, he gathers me in his arms, and the scent of dark chocolate and coffee fills my senses. I turn my face into his shoulder, wrap my arms about him, and allow myself to cry. When the tears finally slow down, I hiccup.

"I’ve got you; I promise." He rubs his hand down my back in slow soothing circles.

I focus on his touch, on how my breasts feel heavy, on my nipples which are pebbled and pressing into his chest, on that strange, tickling sensation that feels like I’m developing an itch between my legs, on the hard column that presses against my inner thigh.

My heartbeat kicks up, I angle myself so the space between my legs rubs against that thick rod, just to alleviate the itch, I swear.

Goosebumps pop on my skin. My thighs tremble.

He must become aware of my actions in the same breath for he freezes and asks, "What are you doing?

" He pushes me away and surges to his feet, looking down at me with a mixture of horror and disgust... and lust. It must be lust that makes his blue eyes darken until they’re nearly indigo. Color splotches his cheeks.

"Fuck!" He begins to pace. "You need to leave, right fucking now."

My heart seizes. My chest hurts. A crushing sensation squeezes my ribcage.

So, he doesn’t want me. That’s okay. There’ll be others.

Like the Mafia husband my family will engage me to when I’m eighteen.

I hunch my shoulders. It’s fine. I can deal with it.

I still have my spicy books. I’ll just have to do a better job of hiding them.

My book boyfriends will never abandon me.

They’ll save me from my wretched life and love me enough to make up for all the disappointments in real life.

I throw off the cover, then swing my legs over the side.

My feet brush my sandals—thank god, I didn’t lose them.

I would have never been able to explain that to my mother—I slip my feet into them, then straighten.

"Fine!" I march past him toward the doorway and stop when he calls out.

"Wait, I’ll take you."