Page 378 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Gio

He swoops down and closes his mouth over mine.

I’m aware of the journalist watching us, of her recording this, and I know I should care, but I don’t.

All that matters is the firm grasp of his on the nape of my neck, which makes me feel cherished and possessed and his, his, his.

And the scent of his, which I draw into my lungs, the hard feel of his lips on mine, the gentle swipe of his tongue against mine, and the tenderness of his licks slay me.

As he cajoles me to open my mouth and allow him to slip his tongue between my lips and draw from me, he brings his other palm up to cup my cheek, and his touch sinks down to my core.

The dominance of his presence pins me down, holds me in place and yet, his touch is gentle.

His assertive touch, combined with the openness with which he shares himself with me, makes my head spin.

None of our previous kisses were this…potent.

This intense. This searing. This all-consuming.

So consuming he seems to have branded himself into every cell in my body.

Then he releases me, slowly, with reluctance.

When he draws back, I chase his mouth with mine, and a low chuckle rumbles up his chest. "We have an audience, baby, and you know how much I hate sharing any part of you with anyone else," he whispers in a voice intended only for my ears. Moisture pools between my legs.

I draw in a breath and fight for composure as he increases the distance between us.

He still holds my gaze, and only when he’s sure I’m steady, does he slowly release his hold on me.

Even then, he twines his fingers with mine and places our joined hands on the table, which the journalist steals glances at through the rest of the interview.

"So, how did the two of you meet?"

I freeze. OMG. OMG. We never did discuss and decide what story to tell the press.

And that’s PR lesson one-oh-one. Never meet the press until you have your story down.

Something I’ve always gotten right in the past. It’s a testament to how off-kilter I am that I never thought of coordinating my narrative with his.

I open my mouth, but he interjects, "It was love at first sight."

I blink.

"It was?" The journalist looks between us.

"Indeed. I walked into a restaurant and was waiting for my meeting to turn up, and I looked over to the table next to mine to find she was seated alone. Of course, I was entranced right away."

"You were?" The journalist asks with interest.

He was? I begin to frown, then manage to school my features into an expression which doesn’t reveal the surprise I’m feeling.

"You bet I was. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Not in the conventional way. Gio is too unique to fit the normal conventions of beauty. It was her flashing eyes and her haughty stare at her date when he finally arrived that drew me in. Then, the two of them got into a fight."

The journalist gasps.

My eyebrows begin to knit again, and I smooth them out. You’re a PR professional. You know how to keep a mask on your emotions. Not as well as him, though. Who’d have thought the stony-faced Rick would turn out to be a consummate liar?

"It was clear she wasn't happy, but when she jumped up and tried to leave, the asshole—pardon my swearing, but he was one—stepped in her way and grabbed her arm. That’s when I jumped up from my seat. I walked over, draped my arm around her and said…"

The journalist is practically salivating, waiting for his big reveal.

So am I. He’s so convincing. I’m half sure all of this happened, and I forgot about it.

Except, if it had happened, I wouldn’t have forgotten about it.

My every single encounter with this man is etched into my memory.

That’s how much of an impression he’s made on me.

So, he’s making all of this up right now.

He flicks a glance in my direction and his mouth curls. "I said, 'Take your hand off my wife.'"

"Oh my god." The journalist fans herself.

Heat flushes my skin, and my toes curl. My wife.

He said, my wife. He doesn’t mean those words, but the possessiveness in his tone, the protectiveness that laces his words, that thread of dominance that runs through his tone, not to mention, the craving in his gaze…

All of it wraps its net around me like a spider’s web around a helpless firefly.

The tension builds, and the hair on the back of my neck rises.

We stare at each other, and the intent in his eyes is so salacious, so carnal, so filled with promise, a shiver sweeps through me.

"What happened next?" the journalist interrupts.

"Oh, he lowered his hand and walked away."

"And then?"

"Then"—he tears his gaze from mine—"then I asked her to join me for dinner."

"And did you?" She turns to me.

Trying desperately to weave some truth into his lies, I continue the deception. "I didn’t want to… But he told me I owed him. He also said if I didn’t join him, he’d understand but—"

"You joined him anyway," she says with satisfaction.

"He said he wouldn’t keep me for more than a drink," I murmur.

"But you stayed for dinner."

I open my mouth to deny it, but Rick steps in. "After which, we walked by the river, and we couldn’t stop talking until the wee hours of the morning."

"Hmm." She taps her fingers. "So, you must know a lot about each other then?"

His forehead creases, then he nods. "Oh, I made it my mission to find out everything about the love of my life."

Her features soften, then she seems to get a hold of herself. "So, you wouldn’t mind if I asked the two of you to take a quiz about the other?"

My heart rate accelerates. No, no, no, I can’t do that. I don’t know that much about this guy. This is going to be a car crash. I begin to shake my head, but once again, Mr. Know-it-all jerkhole beats me to it.

"Of course, we’d be happy to oblige you."

"You okay with that?" She turns to me.

"Umm." I bite the inside of my cheek. If I say yes, she'll figure out we're lying. If I say no, she’ll know something is wrong. I try to pull my hand away from his, but his grip tightens. I try to signal to him with my eyes that I don’t want to do this. He shakes his head, and I know he’s right. We don’t have a choice.

We need to do this. I manage to tip my chin down, then up.

"Awesome." The journalist’s features light up. "My first question is for Rick. What is Giorgina’s favorite color?"

Ha, no way, does he know that. I try not to smirk, but I’d be lying if I said my lips don’t twitch.

His eyebrows draw down, he opens his mouth, shakes his head, then says, "Red."

She turns to me and asks, "Is he right?"

Rick

Goldie seems taken aback, then slowly nods.

To be honest, I’m a little surprised I got that right.

But I’ve noticed how she favors red heels, which makes me wonder how it would be to have them digging into my back; and red lipstick, prints of which I’ve imagined around my cock; and red painted nails, with which I want her to mark my skin.

"And Rick’s favorite color?" the journalist asks her.

"That’s easy, it’s black," Goldie scoffs.

"It is," I affirm.

"Which season is her favorite?" The journalist asks me.

"Autumn," I say without hesitation. When the gold of the leaves matches the sparks in her eyes.

Gio’s gaze widens, then she tosses her head. "And his is winter." A season as cold as his heart is what she communicates with her eyes.

I chuckle, then release my hold on her hand, only to wrap my arm about her shoulders. I pull her close and kiss her forehead.

The journalist smiles.

Goldie stiffens, then inch by inch, she melts into my side.

"Giorgina’s go-to karaoke song?" the journalist asks.

"I will survive by Gloria Gaynor," I reply.

Goldie draws in a sharp breath, and I know I’m right. Again.

The journalist turns her attention to her. I glance down to find her forehead furrowed, then she juts out her chin. "Rick wouldn’t sing but if he did, it would be Highway to Hell by AC/DC."

I bark out a laugh. "Apt choice."

"If Giorgina were on a deserted island, what's the one thing she’d take with her?" She tilts her head in my direction, a look of challenge on her features.

That’s a tough one. What would she take with her? What would she? What would—"Her phone. She’s a PR professional. She has to be connected. Her phone is the one thing I know she can’t do without. Case in point—" I glance down to where her phone has been placed screen down next to her.

"Given there is no Wi-Fi on the island, and her phone would be useless, what else would she take?" the journalist persists.

Goldie pulls away from me, and this time, I let her. I glance into the distance, trying to make the connections in my head.

A few seconds pass. Goldie shuffles her feet. The journalist watches me closely. When a few more minutes pass and I haven’t come up with a reply, a look of disappointment comes into her eyes. "Well, that was a difficult question, to be fair, and—"

"Her Kindle."

The journalist frowns.

Goldie looks at me in shock.

"Is he right?" The journalist turns to her.

"Oh, I know I am." I place the tips of my fingers together. "I’d have said all her favorite novels, but a Kindle is easier to carry, and this way, she can keep herself entertained until help arrives, which would be me, of course."

"Of course," the journalist laughs. "And what about Rick? What's the one thing he’d take to a deserted island?" she asks Goldie.

"Nothing. Except himself, that is."

I narrow my gaze on her.

So does the journalist. "Care to explain?"

"Rick is very resourceful. He’d use whatever he found on the island to fashion a shelter for himself.

He’d manage to catch fish with his bare hands, and keep himself fed.

He’d find a way to gather rainwater or, no doubt, find a plant from which he could drink sap to keep hydrated.

And he’s so sharp, he’d keep himself occupied with his thoughts.

And I bet he’d manage to flag down a ship in the distance by making a fire or attract the attention of a plane flying overhead in no time. "

Silence stretches. The journalist looks at us with something like envy in her eyes.

Gio avoids looking at me, though. "So, what do you say? Do you have everything you need?" she asks the other woman.

We drive back to the rink in silence. The journalist was more than happy with our answers.

She declared she’d never seen a couple more in love, wished us the best in our life together, then wrapped up her interview.

Apparently, we pulled off the impossible.

We convinced her we're made for each other.

Goldie must have been as stunned as I was; neither of us attempted to start a conversation on the way back.

I park in front of the arena where her office is located. Neither of us moves. She stares ahead, and I stare at her. The silence extends.

"What?" she finally snaps.

"That last thing you said about me. Did you mean it?"

"This ring you gave me. Did you mean it?" She raises her left hand, and I glance at my grandmother’s ring on her finger.

"I wouldn’t have given it to you if I didn’t."

Her breath catches. "Rick, this is a fake engagement."

"And we need to make sure everyone believes it isn’t."

"So you gave me a family heirloom?" she bursts out.

"I’m all set to let you feel up the family jewels; a family heirloom doesn't seem like much in comparison."

She looks at me stunned, then a laugh bursts from her lips. "Who’d have thought the surly captain of the Ice Kings has a wicked sense of humor?"

"Who’d have thought the thorny PR manager of the Ice Kings knew me so well?"

She looks away, then back at me. "You answered all the questions about me correctly."

"You seem surprised."

"No more than you."

We stare at each other, and the tension building during the course of the ride threatens to spill over.

"What are we doing, Rick? What’s happening between us?" she bursts out.

"What’s happening is that we're attracted to each other. And now that we’re engaged"—I reach for her hand, encircle her wrist and raise it so the ring on her finger stands out—"I think we should fuck it out."

Her jaw drops. "Typical man. Have a problem? Sex is the answer, of course."

"Not any kind of sex. I’m talking sweaty, heated, erotic, kinky, no-need-for-lubrication, toe-curling, heart pounding, fuck-you-till-you-can’t-walk-straight for days—"

"I get the picture," she cuts in. Her voice is shaky, her breathing roughened. Color sweeps up her neck and paints her cheeks, and damn, but she looks hot and bothered. And so fucking adorable. Did I say adorable? I meant, sexy. I mean, also adorable. But definitely, sexy.

"So, what do you say?" I lower my chin to my chest.

She tugs her hand from mine and shoves the door open. "I say, go to hell."