Page 64 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Hunter

"When do you plan to announce your candidacy for Prime Minister?" Declan Beauchamp, one of my closest friends and now a well-known film star, takes aim, then sinks his pool ball in the pocket. He straightens, walks around and takes aim again.

Also, the club has proven to be one of the few places outside my own home where I will be undisturbed.

And the moment I declare my candidacy, I can say goodbye to any semblance of quiet.

I’ll probably have to stop coming to the club, as well.

Mainly because my every move will be scrutinized, and I don’t necessarily want to draw attention to my friends.

While each of them is well-off in their own way, I won’t impose the kind of scrutiny I draw from the media on them.

I tap my cue on the floor, then narrow my gaze on Declan.

"What’s the hurry?" I drawl.

"Thought this was the dream of your lifetime?"

I incline my head and watch as he lines up his next shot.

A seemingly innocent statement but one which has haunted me, of late.

Is becoming Prime Minister the dream of my lifetime?

Or am I living someone else’s dream? More specifically, that of my father.

As the oldest son of the Whittingtons, it was assumed I’d walk in the footsteps of my old man, and his old man before him.

Indeed, I’ve taken it as my inevitable future and embraced the certainty of it.

I’ve never questioned it. Not until the last few months.

Maybe it’s because I’m so close to achieving the dream I’ve spent so long pursuing.

Maybe because, increasingly, I’m questioning how much I actually want it.

Maybe it’s because working late nights, focused on myself, and coming home to an empty house, one evening with a dark-haired, amber-eyed goddess made me realize I don’t want to do it on my own.

I want someone to share my thoughts with.

Someone who’ll match me word for word. Who’ll challenge me, call me out on my bullshit.

Someone who’ll stimulate me in more ways than one.

Someone whose features have haunted my dreams. Someone whose scent I carry, tucked away in my memory.

Whose laugh I still hear when I close my eyes.

Whose face I imagine waking up to, with my cock at full mast, and it’s not just morning wood.

It’s a painful, physical yearning that seems to come from a place deep inside.

A place I’ve never acknowledged, and an intensity of sensation I’ve never expected.

It’s because of that, I decided not to call her.

Not to approach her. Not to have anything to do with her…

Not until I arrive at a decision about what to do with this new state of my emotions.

It’s not that I like her more than I used to. I still consider Zara Chopra a hindrance in many ways. A distraction? Maybe. A diversion? Definitely. An interference in my well-planned life. A disturbance to my peace of mind.

Until a few months ago, I’d been confident about what I wanted, about where I was headed, about the kind of woman I wanted in my life.

Then, I met her, and the sparks between us flew, and it confounded me.

Like any sensible man, I proposed to her that we fuck it out of our systems. Which would have been the best course of action. For both of us.

But the fact is, she turned me down, and her memory is still an itch I carry with me, an itch no amount of jerking myself off has managed to scratch.

An itch no other woman I’ve gone out with has come close to touching.

An itch which has since grown to consume every cell in my body, every fiber of my being, every waking thought, every sleeping breath.

An itch that, even now, makes me hard just thinking of her.

And I’m nowhere near her. I hadn’t seen her in three months.

I haven’t spoken to her. I’ve avoided any gathering of friends where she could have been present which, considering the number of people we have in common, is an achievement in itself.

Given that I’m entering an important phase of my career, I can’t afford distractions.

Now more than ever, I need to focus. I needed to plan, strategize, spend time analyzing my opponents and drawing up scenarios.

I need to brainstorm with my party colleagues, schmooze them, and win them over.

I’ve tried my best to stay centered, but despite my best efforts, I’ve found myself unable to harness the single-mindedness that’s been my hallmark.

It’s the reason why, at only thirty-nine, I’m on track to become the youngest leader of this country.

Assuming I win the election, which I have no doubt I can do.

If I can simply keep my head in the game.

The cue ball cracks against the object ball, which slides into the pocket. "Yes!" Declan fist pumps. He walks around, positions the cue across the table and sinks another ball, and another. When he finally misses, I line up my shot… And miss.

Declan bursts out laughing. "Your concentration is shot."

"Don’t sound so happy," I grumble as he positions his cue, and of course, sinks his last ball.

"Can’t blame me for enjoying your misery. In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you this distracted."

He straightens and rests the head of his cue against the floor. "Want to play again?"

"Yes, do you want to play again?" A new voice asks.

I turn to find Zara leaning a hip against the doorway.

Heat flushes my skin. Awareness crackles across my nerve endings.

I take in the dark locks that curl about her shoulders, the way she has her chin tipped up, the stubborn glint in those gorgeous sunbeam eyes, and my entire body seems to turn into a whirlpool of desire.

Fuck, she looks even better than I remembered.

She’s wearing one of those skirts that clings to her hips and comes to just below her knees.

It’s supposed to look professional but hell, if it doesn’t bring out the perfect guitar shape of her body.

Teamed with a jacket that she’s buttoned up with the red of her blouse peeking from under the neckline, she resembles a gift I can’t wait to unwrap.

She pushes away from the door and glides toward us. When she reaches the table, she turns to Declan. "Good to see you again. You were amazing in your last movie."

"Why, thank you. And the pleasure is all mine." He flashes her a smile, then takes her hand in his and brings it toward his mouth. Or at least, that’s what I think he’s going to do. Before I can stop myself, I’ve stepped forward and between them, forcing him to drop her hand.

He arches an eyebrow in my direction and snickers. Asshole.

"What are you doing?" Zara snaps.

I jerk my head toward the exit.

Declan’s grin widens. "It would seem my friend here would rather not have anyone monopolize your time."

"Out," I snap.

He laughs, then walks around us. "Good seeing you, Zara." He tosses his cue in her direction, and she snatches it neatly from the air. "Good reflexes." He jerks his head in my direction. "Can’t say the same about you, wankface." He holds his middle finger over his shoulder and strolls out.

"Wankface?" Zara coughs.

"He can be creative when it comes to his insults," I admit.

"So do you wanna play?" She nods toward the pool table.

I peer into her face. "What are we playing for?"

"Whatever you want," she says lightly.

"Whatever it is, you’re going to lose."

"You were the one losing when I walked in," she points out.

"I won’t lose with you."

"Oh?" She tosses her cue from one hand to the other. "And why is that?"

"Because of the stakes I’m playing for."