Page 209 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Solene

He definitely didn’t have piercings at twenty-one.

Not that I remember. Not that I saw him completely naked then to draw that conclusion, but it didn’t seem possible that gorgeous, wholesome-looking man could have piercings.

This growling, grumpy—still achingly handsome, but also slightly older and scarred male, though?

Yeah, he could have a piercing. Or several.

But I didn’t notice any that day at the Club.

But then I didn’t get a full-frontal view of his cock, either.

I wasn’t standing that close, and his body was wreathed in shadows.

"Where is it?" I burst out.

"I’ve no idea what you’re talking about."

"That journalist, he said you had a—"

"He’s not a journalist." His jaw tics. "He’s a celebrity-baiting, privacy-invading gutter guppy who’s on the lowest pecking order of the food chain. He’s worse than a cockroach; he survives on other people’s misfortunes; he thrives on their anger and outbursts. I fucking hate him and his ilk."

I gape at him. "What’s a guppy?"

He blinks, then barks out a laugh. "You’re one of a kind, you know that?"

Heat flushes my cheeks. A gooey sensation puddles in my chest. A different kind of moisture forms between my legs.

He shakes out his hand, and I glimpse the reddened skin over his knuckles. I take his hand between my much smaller ones. He’s so much darker than me, and it’s not fake tan either. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull his hand closer, then bend and kiss the distressed skin.

A shudder runs up his arm. Without glancing at him, I wrap my lips around his knuckle and suck. He inhales deeply. "What are you doing?" he asks in a low voice.

In answer, I bite down on the already injured skin until a drop of his blood oozes onto my tongue. I suck on it, and the coppery taste seeps into my palate. My core clenches. My thighs quiver. What am I doing? I’m not sure, except it feels so right.

"That was so hot." I turn toward him. "You, losing your temper because he insulted me."

He searches my features, then pulls his hand from my grasp. "I’d have done that for anybody in your position."

Anger crackles across my nerve-endings before I retort, "I don’t believe you."

He pretends to yawn. "Not my problem." He pulls out his phone and begins to play with it.

The anger erupts into a full-blown volcano that pulses through my veins. I grab the phone from him, then hit the button to lower the window on my side and toss out the device.

There’s silence in the vehicle, broken only by the sound of my window rolling back up.

Tension thrums from his body. The air in the back of the car grows thick.

His muscles are knotted so tightly, I can feel the tautness that writhes under his skin.

I begin to slide away from him and toward my door.

"Scared, Rabbit?" he growls in that low, hard voice that sends a shiver of apprehension up my spine…combined with something else—an expectation, a frisson of excitement that makes me shiver. My lower lips swell. My nipples tighten. Gah! Why does his anger turn me on? I’m not afraid of him. I’m not.

I tilt up my chin, then toss my hair over my shoulder. "Of course not."

"Hmm."

He swipes out his hand, and I yelp. Only, he plucks a thread from my dress and flicks it aside.

I laugh, and the sound is so tentative, so nervous, I firm my lips.

"You wouldn’t be laughing if you knew what I was going to do next."

"W-w-w-w-what’s that?" Aargh, this stuttering. I was sure I was rid of it, but apparently, being turned on triggers it. Note to self: Do not let yourself be turned on by Declan. Hah! What a joke. Like I have any chance of resisting this man’s influence, his charisma, the sheer dominance of his presence that pushes down on my shoulder and pins me in place.

There’s a soft whirring sound and the screen behind the front and back seats rises.

So does the fine hair on the back of my neck.

I draw in a choppy breath. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

Unable to resist the pull in his direction, I turn my head.

And meet that raw, chilling gaze of his.

Oh, god, oh, god. His eyes have an unholy look in them.

One side of his lips curls. He knows exactly how this building anticipation is beginning to affect me. He looks down at his lap, then at me.

Oh no, no, no, no. I set my jaw. He arches an eyebrow. His gaze narrows, and I can’t stop myself from swallowing. Can’t stop the slow, heavy pulse that blooms between my thighs. My panties are soaked, and he hasn’t even touched me.

He lowers his chin. His nostrils flare, and he pats his thigh. Once. Instantly, I scoot over and lay across his lap.

"Good girl."

His hard voice pours over my skin, leaving little sparks of fire in their wake.

I squeeze my legs together and grip the edge of the seat.

Oh, my god, why is every cell in my body responding to his praise?

What does it mean that I was so quick to obey him?

Not that I could have refused, even if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't.

I might put up a show of defying him, but really, it's an act. I wanted his complete attention on me. This is what I want. The touch of his palm as he flips up my dress and cups my butt cheek through my panties. The stroke of his hand as he continues up the arch of my back, making me stretch.

"You like that, huh?"

I nod. Of course I do. I’m trying to locate that inner rebel that helped me survive all those the years of confinement with my family.

And mostly, I’m convinced I have enough of that spark inside of me to fan it into a full-blown fire of opposition.

But when it comes to Declan, and the forbidden side of him that he’s hinted at, there’s no resistance.

"You know what you are?"

I shake my head.

"A brat."

"A brat?" I tilt my head.

"And you know what happens to brats?"

His fingers graze the seam of my panties and I whine. "What?" I swallow. "What happens?"

"They don’t get what they want."

"I don’t want anything from you, I—" I huff, for he’s slipped his fingertips under my panties and grazed my throbbing clit. Just a touch, but it’s enough to send a flurry of sensations streaming up my back.

But then, he pulls away his hand. The next second, he grabs my waist and swings me up and onto the seat next to him. My butt hits the seat. I blink, then turn on him. "What’s the meaning of this, why didn’t you—?"

"Fuck you?" He laughs. "I don’t fuck virginal little girls."

"I’m not a—" I pause.

His smirk widens. "You going to deny that?"

"Fuck you," I snap.

"Not likely. My tastes run to the extreme, and you’d never be able to take it."

I open my mouth, then shut it. He’s right.

I’m out of my depth. I have no idea what I’m dealing with here.

He may have bought me books—correction, he bought the chain of bookshops, but it’s probably small change for him.

And he’s right. At heart, I’m that scared little, virginal Mafia princess.

No. I fold my arms across my chest. I’m going to show him how wrong he is, if the last thing I do.

The car draws to a halt. I glance out to find we’re in front of a restaurant.

"What’s this place?" I scowl.

"Wouldn’t you like to find out?"