Page 524 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Give me a female who has her priorities set in life. To pleasure me, get me off, then walk away before her emotions engage. Yeah. That’s what I prefer.

Not this… this bundle of craziness who flings her arms around my shoulders, thrusts her breasts up and into my chest, tips up her chin, opens her mouth, and invites me to take and take.

Does she have no self-preservation? Does she think I am going to fall for her wide-eyed appeal? She has another thing coming.

I tear my mouth away and she protests.

She twines her leg with mine, pushes up her hips, so that melting softness between her thighs cradles my aching hardness.

I glare into her face and she holds my gaze.

Trains her green eyes on me. Her cheeks flush a bright red. Her lips fall open and a moan bleeds into the air. The blood rushes to my dick, which instantly thickens. Fuck.

Time to put distance between myself and the situation.

It’s how I prefer to manage things. Stay in control, always. Cut out anything that threatens to impinge on my equilibrium. Shut it down or buy them off. Reduce it to a transaction. That I understand.

The power of money, to be able to buy and sell—numbers, logic. That’s what’s worked for me so far.

"How much?"

Her forehead furrows.

"Whatever it is, I can afford it."

Her jaw slackens. "You think… you—"

"A million?"

"What?"

"Pounds, dollars… You name the currency, and it will be in your account."

Her jaw slackens. "You're offering me money?"

"For your time, and for you to fall in line with my plan."

She reddens. "You think I am for sale?"

"Everyone is."

"Not me."

Here we go again. "Is that a challenge?"

Color fades from her face. "Get away from me."

"Are you shy, is that what this is?" I frown. "You can write your price down on a piece of paper if you prefer." I glance up, notice the bartender watching us. I jerk my chin toward the napkins. He grabs one, then offers it to her.

She glowers at him. "Did you buy him, too?"

"What do you think?"

She glances around. "I think everyone here is ignoring us."

"It’s what I’d expect."

"Why is that?"

I wave the tissue in front of her face. "Why do you think?"

"You own the place?"

"As I am going to own you."

She sets her jaw. "Let me leave and you won't regret this."

A chuckle bubbles up. I swallow it away. This is no laughing matter. I never smile during a transaction. Especially not when I am negotiating a new acquisition. And that’s all she is. The final piece in the puzzle I am building.

"No one threatens me."

"You’re right."

"Huh?"

"I’d rather act on my instinct."

Her lips twist, her gaze narrows. All of my senses scream a warning.

No, she wouldn’t, no way—pain slices through my middle and sparks explode behind my eyes.

Read Sinclair and Summer’s enemies to lovers, marriage of convenience romance in The Billionaire’s Fake Wife here

read Liam and Isla’s fake relationship romance in The Proposal where Tiny first makes an appearance, click here

Read an excerpt from the proposal

Liam

"Where is she?"

The receptionist gazes at me cow-eyed. Her lips move, but no words emerge. She clears her throat, glances sideways at the door to the side and behind her, then back at me.

"So, I take it she’s in there?" I brush past her, and she jumps to her feet. "Sir, y-y-you can’t go in there."

"Watch me." I glare at her.

She stammers, then gulps. Sweat beads her forehead. She shuffles back, and I stalk past her.

Really, is there no one who can stand up to me?

All of this scraping of chairs and fawning over me?

It’s enough to drive a man to boredom. I need a challenge.

So, when my ex-wife-to-be texted me to say she was calling off our wedding, I was pissed.

But when she let it slip that her wedding planner was right—that she needs to marry for love, and not for some family obligation, rage gripped me.

I squeezed my phone so hard the screen cracked.

I almost hurled the device across the room.

When I got a hold of myself, for the first time in a long time, a shiver of something like excitement passed through me. Finally, fuck.

That familiar pulse of adrenaline pulses through my veins. It’s a sensation I was familiar with in the early days of building my business.

After my father died and I took charge of the group of companies he’d run, I was filled with a sense of purpose; a one-directional focus to prove myself and nurture his legacy.

To make my group of companies the leader, in its own right.

To make so much money and amass so much power, I’d be a force to be reckoned with.

I tackled each business meeting with a zeal that none of my opponents were able to withstand.

But with each passing year—as I crossed the benchmarks I’d set myself, as my bottom line grew healthier, my cash reserves engorged, and the people working for me began treating me with the kind of respect normally reserved for larger-than-life icons—some of that enthusiasm waned.

Oh, I still wake up ready to give my best to my job every day, but the zest that once fired me up faded, leaving a sense of purposelessness behind.

The one thing that has kept me going is to lock down my legacy.

To ensure the business I’ve built will finally be transferred to my name.

For which my father informed me I would need to marry.

Which is why, after much research, I tracked down Lila Kumar, wooed her, and proposed to her.

And then, her meddling wedding planner came along and turned all of my plans upside down.

Now, that same sense of purpose grips me. That laser focus I’ve been lacking envelops me and fills my being. All of my senses sharpen as I shove the door of her office open and stalk in.

The scent envelops me first. The lush notes of violets and peaches.

Evocative and fruity. Complex, yet with a core of mystery that begs to be unraveled.

Huh? I’m not the kind to be affected by the scent of a woman, but this.

.. Her scent... It’s always chafed at my nerve endings. The hair on my forearms straightens.

My guts tie themselves up in knots, and my heart pounds in my chest. It’s not comfortable.

The kind of feeling I got the first time I went white-water rafting.

A combination of nervousness and excitement as I faced my first rapids.

A sensation that had since ebbed. One I’d been chasing ever since, pushing myself to take on extreme sports.

One I hadn’t thought I’d find in the office of a wedding planner.

My feet thud on the wooden floor, and I get a good look at the space which is one-fourth the size of my own office.

In the far corner is a bookcase packed with books.

On the opposite side is a comfortable settee packed with cushions women seem to like so much.

There’s a colorful patchwork quilt thrown over it, and behind that, a window that looks onto the back of the adjacent office building.

On the coffee table in front of the settee is a bowl with crystal-like objects that reflect the light from the floor lamps.

There are paintings on the wall that depict scenes from beaches.

No doubt, the kind she’d point to and sell the idea of a honeymoon to gullible brides.

I suppose the entire space would appeal to women.

With its mood lighting and homey feel, the space invites you to kick back, relax and pour out your problems. A ruse I’m not going to fall for.

"You!" I stab my finger in the direction of the woman seated behind the antique desk straight ahead. "Call Lila, right now, and tell her she needs to go through with the wedding. Tell her she can’t back out. Tell her I‘m the right choice for her."

She peers up at me from behind large, black horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. "No."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

She leans back in her chair. "I’m not going to do that."

"Why the hell not?"

"Are you the right choice for her?

"Of course, I am." I glare at her.

Some of the color fades from her cheeks. She taps her pen on the table, then juts out her chin. "What makes you think you’re the right choice of husband for her?"

"What makes you think I’m not."

"Do you love her?"

"That’s no one’s problem except mine and hers."

"You don’t love her."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Excuse me?" She pushes the glasses further up her nose. "Are you seriously asking what loving the woman you’re going to marry has to do with actually marrying her?" Her voice pulses with fury.

"Yes, exactly. Why don’t you explain it to me?" The sarcasm in my tone is impossible to miss.

She stares at me from behind those large glasses that should make her look owlish and studious, but only add an edge of what I can only describe as quirky-sexiness.

The few times I’ve met her before, she’s gotten on my nerves so much, I couldn’t wait to get the hell away from her.

Now, giving her the full benefit of my attention, I realize, she’s actually quite striking.

And the addition of those spectacles? Fuck me—I never thought I had a weakness for women wearing glasses.

Maybe I was wrong. Or maybe it’s specifically this woman wearing glasses…

Preferably only glasses and nothing else.

Hmm. Interesting. This reaction to her. It’s unwarranted and not something I planned for. I widen my stance, mainly to accommodate the thickness between my legs. An inconvenience… which perhaps I can use to my benefit? I drag my thumb under my lower lip.

Her gaze drops to my mouth, and if I’m not mistaken, her breath hitches. Very interesting. Has she always reacted to me like that in the past? Nope, I would’ve noticed. We’ve always tried to have as little as possible to do with each other. Like I said, interesting. And unusual.

"First," —she drums her fingers on the table— "are you going to answer my question?"