Page 77 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Zara

One second, Taylor Swift is warbling about her lost love with Jake Gyllenhaal, and how he called her up again just to break her heart; the next, a familiar, hard voice that has haunted my dreams, and if I’m honest, almost my every waking moment, reaches me.

I snap my eyes open, and he’s there, in the hot tub, the light from the candle flames highlighting the hollows of his cheeks and turning his skin into a golden, candied surface that I’d like to lick and suck on.

He has a cigar clamped between his teeth, a tendril of smoke wafting up from the lit end like the forked tail of a devil.

And damn, if the tufts of hair standing up on his head don’t resemble horns.

His torso is bare… The carved planes of his chest and those broad shoulders make the hot tub, which had felt too big for one person, now too small for the both of us.

Both of us? What the hell is he doing here?

I thought I smelled the sweet, cherry scent of cigar smoke, but had dismissed it as my imagination.

Except, it hadn’t been. The jerkhole who’s haunted my dreams is sitting opposite me in the hot tub.

He plucks the cigar from between his lips and holds it out and away from the water.

With his other arm he reaches for his glass of whiskey and holds it in my direction.

"Salut, Fire."

I curl my fingers into fists. Yep, no doubt about it.

He’s really here. I am not dreaming. Not that I doubted it earlier—for I’m not given to flights of fancy, where my mind conjures up illusions which seem too real—but until he spoke, a part of me wondered if I’d thought about him for so long and with so much intensity that, perhaps, the images in my head had come to life.

At least, now I know I’m not at fault. He’s here and—I lower my gaze to his chest again—he’s not wearing clothes.

At least, not on the top part of his gorgeous, shapely, muscle-bound body.

The steam condenses on his chest. The droplets glisten like dewdrops on leaves in the early morning.

Maybe I should say like the spots on a leopard because, sprawled there, with his eyes half-closed, as if he’s waiting for the inevitable explosion of anger from me, he resembles a predator…

a beast…a sleek feline…a sexy specimen of masculinity who’s at rest and yet, ready to pounce at the least provocation.

Also, did I mention he’s not wearing anything on his torso?

I swallow. One side of his lips ticks up.

His eyes gleam. Bastard’s enjoying this.

No doubt, he thinks I’m going to throw a fit and act all pissed-off—which I am—but damn, if I’m going to let him have that satisfaction.

I reach for my glass of wine and raise it. "Cheers, Brimstone."

He seems taken aback for a second, then he chuckles. The sound grates over my already sensitized nerve endings and seems to travel straight to my core. A hot, heavy sensation thickens between my legs. My toes curl. Jesus Christ, and all this because the wankface chuckled?

Maybe it’s not such a good idea to pretend I’m cool with his sudden appearance.

Maybe I’d be better off throwing a fit. This is supposed to be my getaway.

Why is he here? Either way, it’s clear I can’t stay here, now that he’s here.

Time to get out of here. Why are all of my sentences ending with here?

I clap my half-filled glass onto the platform of the hot tub with enough force that wine spills over the sides. Then I begin to rise to my feet, but his arm whips out and he locks his fingers about my wrist. A flash of electricity zips out from his touch. A-n-d here we go again.

Apparently, nothing has changed over the last few months.

If anything, my body is even more responsive to his touch.

If anything, the throbbing pulse between my legs has grown bigger, wider, stronger…

Until my entire body seems to be weighed down with an overwhelming heaviness, even as my head feels lighter, like I am floating above my body and watching this bizarre situation unfold.

I glance at his grasp on my arm, then back at him, but he doesn’t let go.

"Stay," his voice rumbles across the distance. His gaze is intense, his blue-green eyes lightened to an impossible shade I can only describe as colorless? It’s as if all of his emotions have been swallowed up and are churning inside, ready to be hurled back at me in a ball of sensation so intense, I won’t stand a chance.

I clear my throat, but still, it comes out as a croak. "Hunter—"

"No, don’t speak. Let’s just enjoy what’s left of the evening, okay?"

I glance between his eyes, then nod. "Okay."

"Okay." His grip loosens, and he seems to release me with great reluctance. I sink back in my corner, reach for my glass of wine, and take a sip. I place the glass back on the rim of the tub, then lean back again. With nothing to do with my hands, I place them in my lap. His gaze follows the movement, and his eyes flash. I’m wearing my skimpiest bikini, which barely covers my nipples, and the bottom is a string thong. To be honest, I wouldn’t even have worn that, since I thought I was on my own.

It’s just... I’d changed into my swimsuit and already immersed myself in the tub before I realized I needn’t have bothered with wearing a suit, at all.

By then, I was too lazy to change. Thank god…

Or maybe not. Maybe I would’ve enjoyed shocking him if I hadn’t worn anything—not that he’d have been shocked.

He’s probably been with enough women. A hot sensation stabs at my chest, and whoa…

What’s that about? I don’t have a claim on him. Though I could have one. If I want to.

"I can hear you thinking," he drawls.

"And I wish I didn’t have to hear your voice, at all."

His lips curl. "I can’t wait to hear your voice when you finally scream my name as you come."

That hot sensation in my chest balloons into this massive explosion of lava that travels to my extremities.

My arms and legs tremble. A shudder grips me, and I have to fight to not squeeze my legs together.

Oh, my god, Hunter talking dirty is… The stuff my dreams are made of.

And I’ll be honest, I’ve groaned his name many times in all of my sordid fantasies where he’s done exactly that to me.

"Let me guess, you had no idea that I was here?" I murmur.

"If I had known you were here… I’d have—" He searches my features. "I still would’ve come. For the record, I didn’t see your car outside. I had no idea there was anyone inside the house.”

“I parked my car in the garage.” I firm my lips.

“Which would explain why I didn’t see it. Guess we’re stuck here for the night.” His eyes gleam.

My gaze widens in horror. No, no, no. I can’t spend the night with him. I can’t. If I do, there’s no way I’ll be able to resist the pull between us. “You have to leave, now.” I burst out.

"Have you looked outside lately?" He glances to the sky beyond the enclosed patio. I follow his gaze to find soft flakes of snow floating down.

"You’re kidding me.”

"There’s a storm on the way, heard it on the weather forecast on the way here."

"You sure you didn’t arrange for it just so we both had to spend the night together?" I scowl.

"Are we spending the night together?" He tilts his head.

My thighs clench. Every cell in my body seems to go on alert. Every pore on my skin seems to open in anticipation. I am so fucked. Well, maybe not yet. But let’s be honest, I will be.

"Zara?" His voice is low and soft, and yet, there’s a hard edge to it. A tension coils under his tone. It reaches out to me and lights the ball of heat that’s taken up residence in my belly. Flickers of awareness sizzle through my blood. My toes curl.

"Fire?" he murmurs, and this time, the question in his voice is tinted with desperation. The skin around his eyes tightens. His stance is relaxed, but every muscle in his body is wound tight. The muscles of his shoulders are rigid and defined and oh, god... I want to reach out and trace their shape and feel their dimensions. I want to rub myself against him and lick off the droplets of sweat that roll down his temple and… I want to lower myself onto his thick, long, large cock and get myself off, then clench down on him until he abandons all control and fucks me so hard I can’t think any further—

"You’re killing me," he growls, and something snaps inside of me.

I surge to my feet.