CHAPTER SEVEN #3
I imagine that tux sliding off those broad shoulders. My hands on him. This ridiculous dress sliding down my hips as he kisses every inch of my body. The weight of his hard cock pressing against my stomach while his mouth devours whatever sounds he can draw from me.
My spine arching off the velvet chaise, body yearning beneath his. Those big hands pinning mine above my head—rough. Commanding.
I bet he whispers when he fucks.
Those perfect, proper lips, turning filthy in my ear. His control cracking as he thrusts—composure slipping—losing himself inside me.
I bet he’s a contradiction. Touches me like I’m breakable but fucks like he’s breaking apart. Like a man who’s been quiet for too long and he needs a place to be loud.
I hate that I want to be that place.
I’m unraveling under his touch. And he’s not even trying.
“What does this tattoo mean?” he asks, brushing behind my ear with a curious touch.
“That I’m a fool who makes bad decisions with cheap tequila.”
The real story is more pathetic. It’s the broken heart you never knew you gave me.
His hands fall away, but the echo of him pulses through me like a held breath .
“Okay, B, dress disaster averted. I’ll try not to collapse face-first into the soup course.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there.
“You look beautiful, Pip.”
“Must be the soul-crushing corset. Nothing says glamor like strategically redistributed organs.”
“Not the dress. You.”
My stomach drops straight into my stilettos.
Stop blushing, slut-brain.
Don’t fall for his “rich boy manners” routine. Give him two minutes, and he’ll be telling our dog hostess she’s the belle of the fucking ball.
He doesn’t mean it the way you’re hoping.
I can’t go back to being fifteen and naive. My law books don’t have room for Mrs. Bryce Sterling doodles. I’ve got to be careful, or I’ll waste another decade on this infatuation.
He holds out his arm for me. “We need to discuss dinner protocols.”
Nope. No more touching. I need serious distance. Like, force-field-level. Or one of those grabby claw things they give to senior citizens so they can reach high shelves.
Stick to the plan. No more reckless thoughts about this unattainable man.
Abort this lust.
Abort the whole damn man.
“No thanks, B.” I take a deliberate step back. “I’ve managed to avoid stabbing myself with a fork since preschool. My eating skills are pretty much the same—just with fewer crayons. Usually. ”
I spin toward the banquet hall before my traitorous body can stage a full-blown mutiny against my better judgment.
I’m not a girl who will be turned into a puddle by one well-timed compliment. I am woman. Hear me roar. Or at least hear the rustling of my dress as I flee.
Swish-swish-swish.
The dining chamber is a shrine to over-the-top wealth and questionable taste. It looks like Marie Antionette and Liberace had a decorating showdown and both won.
A single, ridiculously long table dominates the room, encircled by thirty chairs, each intricately carved with gold leaf and adorned with pale-blue velvet cushions.
The place settings are terrifying—layered with six plates, three napkins folded into origami swans, and silverware arranged in a way that suggests measuring devices were involved.
And at the head of the table? Not a chair. A throne. For a dog.
A dog with more money than I’ll earn in fifty-thousand lifetimes.
I scan the monogrammed place cards.
There I am. Petra Brinkman.
And right beside me? Bryce Sterling.
Fuck.
I pick up his name tag, scanning the seating area for somewhere—anywhere—else to put him. Maybe inside the flower arrangement. Or under the dog’s butt. Or I could just eat it.
“Trying to move me toward the exit?” Bryce appears, reclaiming the slip and putting it back.
“I’m trying to create some healthy social distance. For your protection.”
“I’ll take my chances. ”
His gaze locks on to mine, and holy hell—something has shifted. Gone is the polite restraint. Something heated is lurking behind those cool blue eyes. Something hungry… and suddenly my thighs have opinions. Dangerous ones.
The air between us thickens, charged with an energy that makes it hard to breathe. The background noise of polite murmurs fades, leaving nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
“Our conversation from earlier isn’t finished,” he says sternly.
“In my world, when someone walks away, that’s the universal signal for ‘conversation over.’”
“Good thing we’re in my world. Different rules apply.” His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second.
The smallest, most insufferable flicker of a smirk crosses his sculpted lips. It transforms him from handsome to devastating, and something molten spreads through my belly.
Who is this man, and what has he done with the buttoned-up Bryce Sterling?
The warmth of him seeps through my dress’s thin material, flushing my skin like a physical caress. He’s standing so close that if I shifted forward ever so slightly, my chest would brush against the solid wall of his arm. The temptation is maddening.
“Fight it all you want, Pip, but you’re not getting rid of me,” he bites out. “This is Gavin’s week. His wedding. I’m the best man, and he asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“Lucky me. My own personal billionaire babysitter.” I flutter my eyelashes. “Will you be checking under my bed for poverty monsters? ”
“Whatever helps you accept it. But you’re stuck with me until this wedding is over.”
The cocky way he says “stuck with me” drips with heat, not obligation. My internal temperature skyrockets.
“If you think I take orders that easily, you have another thing coming, Moneybags.” I step into his space, daring him to push back. “I don’t wear collars for spoiled rich boys, and I sure as hell don’t fetch, stay, or roll over.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. It deepens—hungrier, dominant, electric.
“You’ve never had the right handler.” His voice drops. “If I clipped a collar on you? You wouldn’t be fighting. You’d be purring.”
And then he smirks. Not a subtle grin—a full-on smolder.
Did Bryce Sterling—Mr. Fortune 500, King of Composure, Goldenboy by-the-book Billionaire—just imply he wants to… dominate me? In the biblical sense?
My brain is a toaster short-circuiting in a bathtub.
What the hell do I say to that?