Page 99 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

"Already, yes, but can we pretend I don’t, for the purposes of this conversation?"

"A little tough, considering, as your PR manager, I have access to the most intimate details of your life."

His lips quirk. "Not all of them."

"No?"

"No." He taps his temple "Not the ones I carry here or" — he taps the place over his heart— "here."

I blink, then glance away.

He blows out a breath. "I didn’t mean to say that. But when I’m with you, it seems, I can’t stop myself."

"Well try harder, Hunter. You seem to forget, it’s both of our careers on the line."

"And I promise, it’ll be game-face out there."

I throw back the rest of the champagne, then place the glass back on the table.

"So your brother’s going to be at this family reunion?"

"He will be, and he’s the darling of my parents. As you know, he plays cricket for England. He’s famous, and in their eyes, a success. And of course, they don’t care that he’s not married or doesn’t have kids. It’s the daughter who always bears the brunt of that particular line of thinking."

"I’m sure you’ll persuade your parents otherwise."

"Oh, when I’m with them… All these PR skills?

They go out the window. I seem to go back to being five and I’m unable to do much but listen to them rant.

" I begin to flick my hair over my shoulder, then remember I’ve put it up for the evening.

I settle for locking my fingers together and looking out the window.

"It’s because they care about you," he murmurs.

"You don’t say."

"They seem like they were very hands-on parents."

"Too hands-on, when they were around. They were always trying to make up for the fact that they couldn’t be there at all times since they were running the store." I snort.

"I’d have liked mine to be more hands-on."

I shoot him a sideways glance. He’s looking into the depths of his champagne flute, a furrow on that perfect forehead.

"Your parents weren’t around as much as you’d have liked them to be, I take it?"

"More like, not around at all." He glances up and holds my gaze. "Yep, I’m the poster child for the poor little rich boy," he says in a self-deprecating voice.

"Did they also leave you Home Alone?"

He blinks, then barks out a laugh. "Very good, Chopra."

"Why do you call me by my surname when you think I’m being particularly witty?"

He raises a shoulder. "Shouldn’t I?"

"It’s like when I’m unexpectedly witty you, somehow, attribute my intelligence to the patriarchy."

His gaze widens. "And all this, because I referred to you by your surname?"

"Think about it. When you’re turned on, you refer to me by my nickname, when you think I’m being bratty, you scold me by calling me by my name, and when I say something particularly witty, you refer to me by my surname."

"I still don’t get it." He shakes his head.

"That’s the problem. With all you private school educated, entitled prats, your background fosters emotional austerity and fierce clique loyalty, not to mention the misogyny that runs through you lot."

"You mean, I spent the formative years of my childhood in boarding schools being looked after by adults who didn’t love me," he drawls.

"Are you trying to make a play for my sympathy?"

"I’m merely letting you know that you judge me and my lot" —he makes air quotes with his fingers— "too harshly."

My gaze narrows. "You think I need to re-evaluate my opinion on you and your lot who never grow up. You, who forever remain boys; who think they can do anything and get away without consequences."

"I think" —he tilts his head— "I think you need to see it from my point of view.

I remember my childhood as long stretches of desolate homesickness, of having my attachments to home and family broken abruptly several times a year.

I lost everything—parents, pets, toys, younger siblings…

Of course, I could cry if I liked, but no one was going to help me. "

He drags his thumb under his lower lip, and my nipples harden.

I shove aside the traitorous reaction of my body and tip up my chin.

"So you learnt to cultivate the stiff upper lip.

You could either be yourself—homesick, vulnerable, lovelorn, and frightened—or you could perform being loyal, robust, and self-reliant.

Wear a brave face and distance your feelings, growing the hardness of heart of the educated.

"And you chose the latter. You convinced yourselves early that you had no great need of love. You decided to act grownup, even when you were very young, for that meant you needed no one. In fact, your experiences toughened you enough that, later in life, when you saw other people cry, you felt no great need to go to their aid. That’s what you’re getting at, aren’t you?

That it’s not your fault how you turned out.

It was circumstances that made you what you are. "

"Didn’t your circumstances make you what you are today?" he counters.

"I hardly think our backgrounds have anything in common."

"On the contrary." He places the champagne flute on the small table and turns to me. "You understand me so well because you’ve been through the same experiences I have, albeit in a different milieu."

I scoff. "Are you contrasting my upbringing with that of your privileged lifestyle?"

He looks between my eyes. "We’re both the products of over-ambitious parents who wanted their children to become over-achievers."

"And here we are," I murmur.

"Indeed. Both of us, high-performing goal-setters, never happy with the status quo. And" —his gaze grows intense— "I’ve never been happier than I am right now, sitting next to you."

I swallow, then set my lips. "You forgot to add, we’re never meant to be."

"You’re here now, aren’t you?" His shoulders are relaxed, yet a nerve pops at his temple. His body is sprawled out against the rich leather seat, but his gaze is wary. This man is so full of contrasts, it makes my head spin. He’s such a puzzle.

It both energizes me and chips away at my reservations—all of the hurdles I’ve been throwing in my own path of why I can’t be with him.

"You’re so—"

"Clever, witty, erudite?" he drawls.

"—full of yourself," I snap.

"And soon, you’ll be full of me."

I blink, then make a gagging sound. "I can’t believe you just said that."

"Believe it. It was a good comeback, though, admit it." He smirks.

"You have a one-track mind."

"Don’t tell me you aren’t, right now, thinking of straddling me as I thrust up and into you."

My belly clenches. My pussy hums. I can feel the evidence of my arousal gnaw at my lower belly and.

..oh, god, my breasts hurt, my thighs feel so very heavy, and my core?

It feels so empty, so aching, so yearning for that sensation when his beloved thickness has me impaled and stretched and skewered around his gorgeous cock.

A-n-d, did I just think of his penis as 'his beloved thickness’?

Why do his words turn me on so? Why am I so unable to resist him?

I squeeze my thighs together, then pretend to frown at him.

"Hunter," I say in a warning tone.

He laughs and raises both of his hands. "Just kidding you, Fire."

"So now it’s Fire, is it?"

"You set my world on fire."

I half-laugh, then turn away. I shake my head, try to gather myself, and I’m all too aware of his big body taking up so much of this small, enclosed space, of his dark scent that envelops me, the cloud of heat that spools off of his chest and pins me in place, the strength of his dominance which is a palpable presence, one that turns my throat dry, that wrings my insides into coils of tremulous anticipation, and oh, god, I’m losing myself.

I’m going to hell for what I’m going to do next, but I can’t fight this… Can’t fight us anymore.

I square my shoulders. "So…" I turn to him. "That scenario you painted earlier, do you want to recreate it?"