Page 354 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Giorgina

"You’re such a good girl." He wraps his fingers around my throat and leans in until his breath raises the fine hair on my forehead. "You take everything I give you so beautifully."

My toes curl. When Shane East says, 'good girl', I’d do anything he wants, even if it causes pain. Especially if it causes pain. A-n-d… Don’t tell my friends I’m listening to The Billionaire’s Fake Wife by L.

Steele, instead of How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie.

Everyone knows I only listen to motivational speakers and only read self-help books.

Oh, I also have my life organized by the minute—the only way to stay in control.

Which reminds me, I have precisely thirty minutes to get in and out of this shindig.

The only reason I’m here is because my friend, Abby, invited me, and I couldn’t say no.

I flounce into the room, hitch my Hermès bag over my shoulder and declare, "Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m late. "

Silence descends, broken only by Shane’s baritone in my ear which growls, "Come for me. Right now." Oopsie, best to shut off my audiobook for the time I’m here.

I’m addicted to the voices of my growly audio narrators.

There's nothing like listening to them to drown out the thoughts in my head.

The ones where I worry about everything that can go wrong with my life.

The ones where I work myself into a tizzy and end up talking to myself—a sight that draws strange looks from people near me.

One of the last things I want my friends to witness.

I slide my phone from my handbag, stop the audio, then pull out my earphones and drop them into my bag. When I look up, my gaze arrows in on the man hulking by the bar.

He’s six-foot-six—no kidding, the tallest, biggest man I’ve ever met outside of my spicy novels, though I’ll never tell him that— with shoulders that fill my vision, and that chest of his clad in a black T-shirt, which is threadbare and outlines every single ridge and divot of his pecs.

And that throat—OMG, that gorgeous, sinewed throat with veins that pop in relief when he’s pissed.

Of course he’s pissed, as evinced by the set of his jaw, the nerve that flexes at his temple, and those dark brows drawn down over his eyes.

Blue eyes. Icy, frosted, and glacial. They chill me to the bone, even as the sight of his luscious, pouty, lower lip makes me want to dig my teeth in and draw blood. Argh.

These conflicting emotions where Rick Mitchell is concerned always give me whiplash.

How can you hate a man and yet be attracted to him so much?

His gaze intensifies. He brings the bottle of water to his mouth, his biceps bulge.

The veins on his forearms stand out in relief, and my toes curl.

Ugh, why does he have the most deliciously sculpted arms?

And that narrow waist, lean hips, and thick, powerful thighs, which contract as he walks.

And between them that bulge —which indicates he’s packing something mean and big and—he widens his stance.

I jerk my head up. His lips curl and oh, my word, that smirk. It’s hot and mean and so very annoying.

So, he caught the staring—big deal. It’s a free country, last time I checked.

So what if this city is dull and grey, and the rain gets on my nerves.

I’m not one to complain. I’m going to work with the cards I’ve been dealt.

Everything in my life so far has prepared me to meet challenges head on.

It doesn’t stop heat from flushing my cheeks, though.

His frown deepens, then he wraps those succulent lips around the bottle of water and guzzles from it.

I will not stare at his throat as he swallows. Will not allow myself to salivate at the thought of licking my way up that hard column and tasting the salt on his skin. Will not.

He raises the bottle in my direction. Caught again. Twice in two minutes. What a disaster. I toss my hair over my shoulder, pop out my hip—clad in the latest Max-Mara creation, by the way—and tip up my chin, then force myself to tear my gaze away from that gorgeous, irritating hunk of a man.

"Hope I’m not disturbing?" I arch an eyebrow at the room in general and spot the bottle of champagne Cade—my friend Abby’s husband—holds in his hand.

"Aha, so you’re the guardian of the bubbles?

" I say brightly. Guardian of the bubbles? Clearly, I’ve been spending too much time in the company of Hollywood personalities.

Couldn’t come up with anything better? Whatever.

I’m funny, charming, and I have a larger-than-life personality.

Stay positive. Fake it till you make it, remember?

I strut toward him, snatch up a flute from the bar, and taking the bottle from him, check out the label.

"Dom Pérignon, excellent. I think I might have found my tribe, I—"

Suddenly, a pony—no, it’s a dog, a massive mutt, a Great Dane, by the looks of it—leaps up to his feet. He must have been crouched down by Rick’s legs, and I didn’t notice him because, of course, I was focused on the man to the exclusion of everything else.

Seriously though, am I that taken in by this man that I missed this…

this… Enormous beast who now prowls toward me?

There’s a glint in his eyes, as he takes me in—like I’m his next meal.

The hair on the nape of my neck rises. His jowls shiver.

He opens his jaws, and drool drips from them.

His teeth are so sharp. I swallow. He’s moving toward me with such intent.

Is he going to bite off my head, or maybe, a hand?

Doesn't anybody else see this? Why isn't anyone stopping him?

My pulse rate spikes. Ohmigod. I should cry out for help. I should. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. He draws closer, and every cell in my body seems to freeze. He gathers speed as he nears, then rears up, and believe me when I say, he's taller than I am.

I whimper. That's right—brave, confident, takes-no-prisoners Giorgina whimpers.

My heart fights to escape my ribcage. The blood pounds at my temples.

He snatches the bottle of champagne from my hands, upturns it so the contents empty down his gullet, then plants his paws back on the floor, drops the bottle, and pushes past me to the sound of several voices yelling in unison, "Tiny! "

Seriously? Tiny?

I stumble back. The six-inch high heels of my Louboutin's catch in a crack in the wooden floors. Oh, no, no, no. I begin to tip over.

I throw up my hands to try to find my balance, and my handbag goes flying.

This is it. Death by Great Dane. Ugh! That's not the kind of headline I want to make. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact, only something strong and hard bands around my waist. The breath whooshes out of me. The next second, I’m hauled to an upright position.

I know who it is before I sense the heat that leaps off of him and lassoes around me.

I know who it is before that scent of fresh snow and cut grass teases my nostrils.

I know who it is because I’m plastered from back to hip to thigh against his front and his sizable thickness stabs into the curve of my butt.

I know who it is because no one but he could sport an arousal so big, it feels like a hockey stick has slapped me in the rear.

Jesus. Of course, my brain goes to hockey sticks.

He's likely to be the new Captain of the London Ice Kings, so he'd better know how to wield a hockey stick.

I mean, not the one between his legs—nope, not going there in my head.

Obviously, I'm sure he plays with that one, too—the one between his legs, I mean. And ohmigod, the image of his big, fat fingers squeezing his monster cock is something I’m not going to forget in a hurry.

His grasp around my waist tightens, and he pulls me so close, said hockey stick—is it curved at the end, too?

—throbs against me. It seems to grow longer, thicker, larger…

Gah, that’s your imagination. It has to be.

No one has such a big dick, except maybe, porn stars.

And Rick’s not a porn star. He’s a freakin’ ex-NHL player, who did a stint with the Royal Marines, did some moonlighting as a bodyguard, and is now back to playing hockey. That’s all he is. He’s human.

He may look like a god, avenging angel and devil, all rolled into one, but he’s a man.

A man who’s larger-than-life and built, given no inch of him gives while I’m plastered to him, including his dick, which is now happily nestled in the cleavage between my butt-cheeks, and.

.. OMG! My flush deepens and spreads down my chest to my extremities.

A thousand little fires spark across my skin.

Someone clears their throat, and I glance around the room to find every single gaze is on me. Oh no, no, no. Nice way to make an impression on your new employer.

"Let me go." I pull free from Rick, who, thankfully, releases me, then spin around. "How dare you touch me, you oaf?"