Page 74 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Hunter

"Mr. Whittington is Zara your girlfriend?"

"Zara, are you dating Mr. Whittington?"

More flashlights go off.

What the fuck? How did the paparazzi know I was here? Not that I’m trying to hide my movements, but it’s not like I broadcasted to the world that I’d be here today. Perhaps, someone spotted me entering earlier?

My security detail brackets us in, one to my right and another on the other side of Zara.

"This way," David, one of my bodyguards says, and leads us through the throng of news people. One of the paps steps in our path and aims his camera in our faces. I reach out to cover the lens. "No photos."

"How about a comment then?" He lowers his camera. "Are you two dating?"

"Ian, isn’t it?" I smile and hold out my hand. "How are you today?"

Ian hesitates, then takes my hand. "You still haven’t answered the question. Is she your girlfriend?"

"She is a...friend."

"Was that a hesitation I sensed there?" Ian’s gaze narrows.

"Have I ever lied to you before?"

He slowly shakes his head.

"We are here to see a mutual friend, and you caught us leaving together."

"Hmm." He doesn’t look convinced.

"When I do have a girlfriend, if I ever have a girlfriend, I’ll be sure to let you know."

He releases my hand. "I’ll hold you to that."

I nod, then brush past him and reach for Zara’s hand, both to guide her forward, and because I want to protect her from the pack, but she shakes it off. She flounces past me, a smile pasted firmly on her features. Her gaze is calm, certainly calmer than what I’m feeling now.

We reach my car, and I hold my door open.

"I am not leaving in the same car as you."

"Get in, Zara."

"They’re still watching us," she hisses.

"And I’m giving my 'friend' a lift."

"I have my own car."

"David will follow us with it."

She scowls. I glare at her. "Fire, do this, please."

Maybe it’s because I say please, or because she can’t wait to get out of there, but she pulls out her key fob and slaps it into my outstretched hand.

I hand it over to David. She slides inside the car, and I follow her.

One of my security detail gets in the front seat next to the driver and we’re off.

"We’ll drop Ms. Chopra off at her apartment first."

My chauffeur nods, and I raise the barrier between the front and back seats.

She arches an eyebrow. "Fancy."

"Have I impressed the hard-nosed Ms. Chopra?"

She raises a shoulder. "Never seen a Range Rover with one of these." She nods toward the now raised divider.

"It’s custom built."

She shoots me a sideways glance. "I assume it’s also armored."

"And has a self-contained oxygen supply."

"Should you be telling me all this?"

"It’s not a secret; you can look it up on Wikipedia. But even if it wasn’t there, I’d share it with you."

She shakes her head. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"You know what. You’re trying to pretend we have a future together and we don’t."

"But we could."

She squeezes the bridge of her nose. "You’re not listening to me."

"I am, but I don’t agree with you."

"We were in that hospital together and you saw what happened. Already the newshounds are circling."

"And you and I are veterans at playing the media," I point out.

"Which is why I can’t believe I allowed myself to be caught coming out of there with you."

"You couldn’t have known that they’d have sniffed a story so fast."

"There’s no story." She lowers her hand and locks her fingers together in her lap.

"Not yet."

She tips up her chin. "Never will be."

"You’re stubborn."

"And you’re a pain in the wrong place."

"I can do a lot to alleviate any pain in any part of your body, baby."

She groans. "Ugh, that was terribly corny."

"So, why are you smiling?"

Her lips twitch. "Am not."

"You are, too."

She covers her mouth with her palm.

"That’s cheating."

The skin around her eyes crinkles.

I smirk. "Now you really are smiling."

She drops her hand and folds her arms across her waist. "You’re good at distracting from the topic at hand. A born politician."

"And you do a fantastic job with your PR agency."

"You sound surprised."

"It was a genuine compliment." I raise my hands. "Honest."

"Hmph." She finally turns to scan my features. "Apparently, you do mean it," she finally says.

"Of course, I mean it. I’ve always admired your work ethic, your focus, and how you’ve defused the trickiest of media situations for your clients, including how you handled yourself back there." I jab my thumb over my shoulder.

"I’m a PR consultant." She angles her head. "Though I admit, being in the eye of the camera, rather than the person pulling the strings, has a very different feel to it. It’s a good lesson to take away. I often demand a lot of my clients when they come to me with their problems. I’ve forgotten how you have to think on your feet while you are caught in the crosshairs of the paparazzi. "

"You are inherently empathetic—"

"No, I’m not," she bursts out.

"—however you may try to hide it," I finish my sentence.

"Stop trying to find good traits in my character," she mumbles.

"Stop putting yourself down so much."

We stare at each, and a reluctant smile pulls at her lips again. "You’re persistent."

"I am."

The moment stretches, the space between us, once again, charged with that connection that’s shimmered between us from the moment we met. I reach over and rub the edge of her lips. She pulls away from me.

"Your lipstick; it’s smudged."

"Oh, god, and that’s how the photographers saw me?

" She dips into her ever-present bag—now placed on the seat between us—and pulls out her lipstick and compact.

She paints her lips with the color, and heat tightens my groin.

She smacks her lips together, and fuck me, I almost come in my pants.

I guess I make a sound, for she shoots me a sideways glance.

"You okay?" she asks in an innocent voice.

"Don’t push it, Fire."

She tilts her head. "Should I call you Brimstone then?"

"You may call me yours."

Her features harden. "Don’t do this, Hunter."

"Now that you’ve refreshed your make-up, I think it’s time."

"Time for what?"

"This." I reach over, clamp my fingers about the nape of her neck, and pull her close.

Her gaze widens. Her chest rises and falls. She swallows, but doesn’t pull away.

"Do you want this, Zara?"

She doesn’t answer.

"Tell me you don’t want my lips on yours.

Tell me you don’t want to feel my breath entwined with yours, my fingers squeezing your arse, my cock in your pussy as I pound into you and take you to the edge but don’t let you come…

Not until I’ve pulled out and taken your arse; and even then, when you beg me, I won’t let you orgasm—not until you agree that you belong to me and then—"

"Then?" she whispers.

"I still won’t let you orgasm—not until I’ve shown you how explosive it is when you’re in my arms. Until I’ve convinced you how good we are together.

Until I’ve taken every hole in your body and shown you the kind of pleasure you’ve never felt before.

Until every part of your body belongs to me.

Until your curves cry out for my ministrations, your flesh yearns for my touch, your mind can no longer resist me, and your emotions and senses are honed in on me.

Not until you acknowledge you are mine."

Her pupils dilate. The gold in them lightens until they seem almost silver in color. She lowers her gaze to my lips, and the pulse at the base of her throat speeds up.

I tighten my grasp about the nape of her neck. "Tell me to stop, Zara, and I will."

"Hunter, I... I can’t." She raises her gaze to mine. "But if you kiss me, I’ll never forgive you."

Zara

That’s the last thing I said to him. In the back of his car, with the shaded glass of the windows hiding us from the outside world.

He held my gaze for a second longer, his hold on the nape of my neck seemed to tighten almost imperceptibly, and then he loosened his fingers.

He pulled back his arm, turned his head away, and it was as if a physical wall came down between us.

He rolled down the screen that had hidden us from his chauffeur and bodyguard in the front seat, and for the rest of the journey he didn’t look at me or acknowledge me again.

He pulled out his phone and began to scroll through his messages. A first.

He never did that before. He always focused one-hundred percent of his attention on me, and now that I don’t have it, I miss it.

A few seconds earlier, he had his hands on me, his gaze locked with mine.

And now, it’s as if he’s withdrawn from me.

Completely. Of course, he did. The horrible, sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach tells me I’ve lost him.

Irrevocably. I told him I’d never forgive him; it never occurred to me he might not forgive me.

I pushed him away once too often, and now, he’s never going to look at me the same way again. It’s really over, and he’s never going to pop up in my life the way he’d been doing. The fact that it’s been more than three months since that incident confirms it.

I glance through my office window and see the throng of shoppers on the streets of Soho.

The Christmas lights were lit a few weeks ago.

Christmas decorations began appearing in shop windows a few months ago.

When autumn turned into winter, with the temperature plunging and warnings of early snowfall, I had no idea.

I buried myself in work after that last run in with Hunter.