Page 35 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Liam

"You’re either feeding me or fucking me.

" She’s perched on the counter next to me as I chop the vegetables.

After that discussion in my study, I brought her back to the bedroom.

We showered and changed, separately. And only because I knew if I pulled her into the shower with me, we wouldn’t leave the bedroom for the rest of the day; which was fine by me, but after that mini breakdown in the study, I wanted a chance to get to know her better.

Asking her what was on her mind was only going to cause her to shut up further. So I had to change tactics.

If you can’t get what you want the direct way, you have to employ cunning; perhaps, even be underhanded in how you go about it, which I’m not above.

I jumped into the shower, then walked to the kitchen to start preparing a late lunch.

It took another forty-five minutes for her to join me.

By which time, she seemed more put together.

Her features were more composed, her gaze calmer.

She’d changed into a simple dress that fell below her knees.

It was a deceptively simple get up, but one which highlighted her figure.

I asked her to open the wine, and she offered me a glass.

She’d offered to help, and I waved her off.

Now, I take a sip of the red wine and glance down at her.

"Are you complaining?"

"Nah." She reaches over and picks up a slice of pepper. "I admit, I’m not a great cook. I mean, I cook, on occasion, but given a choice, I’ll call out for the food I need."

"Where’s the fun in that?" I slide the vegetables into the salad bowl, then get started on the dressing. The lasagna I’d prepared is already in the oven.

"You think cooking is fun?"

I hear the note of incredulity in her voice and chuckle.

"It’s relaxing. Keeps me focused, so I’m thinking of something other than work."

"You actually take a break from building your empire?"

"Even Darth Vader needs to, on occasion, recharge."

"A-n-d a pop culture reference. Careful, or I’ll think you’re almost human." She snickers.

"Only where you’re concerned."

In the silence that follows, I glance at her. She’s looking into her wine glass, her forehead furrowed.

"Why do you get uncomfortable when I talk about my feelings for you?" I murmur.

"You don’t have feelings for me," she says and tries to laugh, but the attempt is feeble.

"You know I do, but you prefer not to acknowledge it."

"Assuming that’s the case…” she tips up her chin. "Is that a problem?"

I peruse her features. "So that’s how it feels to be on the receiving end of not having your feelings reciprocated, huh?"

She shakes her head. "Don’t, Liam. Don’t be so—"

"Sensitive?"

"I was going for histrionic, but I’ll settle for sensitive. It’s not a look that suits you."

I place the knife down on the counter, then turn to stand between her legs. "I know when we first met I came across as authoritative—"

"Which you still do."

"And dominant—"

"Which you still are."

"And I won’t apologize for that."

"So what’s this conversation about?"

I take the wine glass from her and place it on the table, then take both of her hands in mine.

"I want something more with you. Want to be something more than what I’ve been so far without you.

I want" —I bring her hands up to my mouth and kiss her fingertips— "to be the kind of man you’d be proud to stand next to. "

"And you are, Liam. Any woman would love to be the one you vow to spend the rest of your life with—"

"Just not you. Why, Isla? What we shared earlier when we made love—"

"When we fucked, you mean?"

"When we made love; it was different. Every time we’ve made love, our connection has deepened.

I feel close to you. Like you’re the only other person who knows me as well as I know myself.

What I’m feeling for you… It’s new and scary, but it’s also so very exciting.

The chance to have you by my side, to have a family with you…

It’s like I’ve found my purpose in life.

Turns out, all that power and money I’ve been accumulating is not half as satisfying as the opportunity to have my own family. "

"And what about me?"

I pull back a little. "What do you mean? You agreed to marry me—"

"So you could get your inheritance."

"And you could get publicity for your wedding planning company," I point out.

"I’m not sure it was a good idea to agree to this arrangement," she says quietly.

"Because you’re beginning to feel something for me?"

"And I don’t like it—not one bit. The sex between us may be great, but that doesn’t mean anything."

"It’s a start."

"It’s not enough." She tries to pull her hands out from between mine, but I don’t let go.

"I’m not going to let you turn your back on what we have. I’m not going to allow you to deny that you’re developing feelings for me."

"Whatever it is I feel for you, it’s not enough for a future together, Liam."

"And here I thought you were fearless. That when you wanted something you went after it."

"I don’t want you, Liam."

I bend my knees and peer into her eyes. "I don’t believe you."

She holds my gaze. "Better believe it."

After that she sipped her wine as I finished cooking.

We ate at the table on the deck. A squirrel hopped over to the edge of the deck, and sat watching us until I wasn’t been able to stop myself from throwing it a piece of bell pepper from the salad.

It ran away, only to return and pick up the morsel when I had my gaze turned away.

Maybe I should nickname her squirrel instead.

She was watching the squirrel. And I was watching her. I recorded every nuance of her expression—the way she gazed at the squirrel, first, with wide eyes, then laughing at its antics, and finally, exclaiming in surprise, when the creature darted back and grabbed the slice of vegetable.

It’s as if something inside of me knows the clock on our relationship is running down.

Soon, we’ll have to return to the real world.

Soon, she’ll ask me again to release her from our agreement, and this time…

No, I won’t think about that. Still, I’m taunted by that old saying: if you love something, set it free.

I always scoffed at it, but now I’m beginning to understand…

I won’t be able to stop her from leaving me, and for someone known for being so powerful, that’s an oxymoronic statement… for a moronic man.

I’ve never not owned what I want. Never not taken what I need.

Never not focused on my own desires, to the exclusion of everything else.

This… Thinking of another person before myself, respecting another person’s wishes, being tuned into another person to the extent her frame of mind becomes my own, is new.

More to the point, it’s shockingly out-of-character for me.

It’s strangely different and yet, not. It’s like she’s unlocked something intrinsic, yet hidden, inside of me with only her presence.

That’s how much this woman affects me. I can only watch my own reactions in bemusement.

If anyone had told me, even a week ago, that pretending to be married would change the blueprint of my life, I’d have laughed at them.

Come to think of it, I did. On the eve of my wedding.

After all, the entire goal of this project was to ensure I didn’t get caught up in a relationship.

I set out to protect my feelings and gain access to my inheritance.

I ended up losing my heart and unsure if owning my company outright and getting my trust fund will give me the kind of satisfaction I derive from taking care of her, making her smile, holding her in my arms, burying my face in the curve of her neck and breathing in her scent.

Feeling her shiver under me, her pussy quiver around my cock, her breasts tremble, her shoulders convulse as she falls apart on my command.

Directing her to orgasm is far more thrilling than managing another takeover or acquisition.

Persuading her to open up for my tongue, my fingers, my dick is far more satisfying than closing a merger.

Coaxing her to trust me is the biggest challenge I’ve undertaken in my life.

One which I can’t afford to lose, at any cost.

I have more riding on this than on the outcome of any business negotiation. And I’ve never been more nervous. It’s why I grip my wine glass with such force that the stem snaps and the bowl shatters. The red liquid spills over the wooden surface of the table and drips down the sides.

She pushes her chair back with a yelp. I glance down at the blood that drips from my palm. It’s curiously bright.

"Oh, your poor hand." She grabs the paper napkin, and presses it down on my hand. Within seconds, the blood has blotted through it. "We need to take care of this."

I watch her face, take in the concern in her features.

The way the color has leached from her cheeks.

How her lips are parted in concern. How she’s cradling my hand in hers.

The emotion on her face runs the gamut from worry to anxiety to determination.

She sets her jaw and looks up at me. "This needs to be seen to, Liam. "

"Okay."

"Okay?" She jumps to her feet. "Is that all you have to say?" She grabs another napkin, places it in my other hand and brings it down on the injured one. "Hold your arm up above your heart and keep this there, please." I oblige. She tugs on my shoulder. "Get up. Let’s go inside, please."

I rise to my feet. Does she know she can ask me for anything and I’ll give it to her? I’d set the world itself on fire for her. I shake my head. Maybe the cut is more severe than I thought. It’s the only explanation for why my thoughts are turning so sentimental.

She slides her arm around my waist, and urges me forward.

As if I’m an invalid, and she needs to support my weight.

My lips quirk, then I wipe the expression off of my face.

I put my uninjured arm about her waist, but I keep the other elevated so she won’t yell at me.

Yep, I’m taking advantage of her nearness, but if this is the only way I’m going to be the focus of her attention… So be it.

"Where’s your first aid kit?"

"In the kitchen, in the cabinet on the right.”

We head in that direction.

"Sit." She points to a chair at the dining table on the far corner. I raise my eyebrows, but decide to play along. And only because I’m enjoying her attentiveness.

She grabs the first aid kit, then turns and walks over to me.

Meanwhile, I sit down on the stool and hold my hand above my heart.

She sets out what she needs, then reaches for my palm.

To clean it, she has to get closer, and to get closer, she has to step into the space between my thighs.

Also, when she reaches for my hand, it thrusts her chest right in my face.

Nice. My groin hardens. A thrill of satisfaction runs through me.

Holy shit. Being this close to her is more exciting than chasing the next million dollar deal.

I am well and truly fucked. I knew it, but this…

right here—her in my space, focused on my injured palm as she presses a wad of cotton to the wound, quickly cleaning the wound, blowing on it, and apologizing for hurting me when I wince, while concentrating on taking care of me—is a heady feeling.

It’s more of a turn on than watching porn.

It’s almost as arousing as undressing her, which I’m doing with my eyes right now.

I drag my gaze down her back to the curve of her butt.

She reaches over for the ointment, and the hem of the dress she’s wearing rises up her thighs.

I reach and place my palm of my uninjured hand on the exposed skin.

She freezes. For a beat, another. Then continues with her ministrations.

She spreads the ointment on my cut, then begins to wrap a bandage around my palm.

"Maybe we need to take you to a doctor. You might need stitches. "

"The wound has stopped bleeding already. Also, the only thing I need is you kissing it and making it better."

She shoots me a sideways glance. "Aww, you big baby."

I allow my lips to turn down. "I’m hurt. I need some TLC."

She bites the inside of her cheek. "I think you’ve been acting all this time. You aren’t really in much pain are you?"

She tightens the bandage and pain flashes up my arm. This time, I wince for real.

"There, all done." She admires her handiwork.

"You still haven’t kissed it," I point out.

"And I still think you need to get stitches."

"I barely felt the cut," I admit. "There was more blood than a small wound warrants." I slide my hand further up her skirt, and she shivers.

"Liam," she warns.

"LadyBird." I smirk.

I brush my fingers against the edge of her panties, and she draws in a sharp breath.

"Liam, don’t," she says in a low voice.

"Why not? I’ve already fucked you. I’ve taken your arse. I’ve owned your mouth. I’ve taken every hole in your body that counts. So why can’t I touch you?"

"Because" —she reaches for the sanitizer and rubs her palms with it— "I haven’t changed my mind. I think this was a mistake. I think we should head back to the mainland, and go our separate ways."

"Look at me when you say that, Isla."

She hesitates, then turns to meet my gaze. "I think we should part ways."

I arch an eyebrow. I don’t want to say this but if it’s the only way to get her to stay then I’ll pull out every argument I can get my hands on.

I’m not above playing dirty. “You’ve already benefitted from the contract.

There’s enough buzz around the wedding in the media, your business has already benefitted from this.

If you leave now it’s breach of contract. ”

She pales. “You... you’re going to hold me to the contract now?”

“Especially now,” I lean in closer until my lips almost brush her’s, "Considering you may already be pregnant with my child." Not to mention the fact that I can’t even contemplate the thought of letting you go.