Dirty Billionaire (Page 22)

Creighton pulls on a pair of lounge pants—I have no idea where those came from—and settles into one of the chairs in the sitting room portion of the master suite. I take the chair opposite him.

“We need to lay out some ground rules.”

I’m not sure I like the sound of that, because I assume what he really means is that it’s time to lay out Creighton’s rules.

But what did I really expect? That I’d have some sort of bargaining power here? My leverage disappeared when I signed on the dotted line.

I know it, and he knows it.

Then again, we both want something from the other, which I suppose puts us on sort of even footing. Except . . . not really. He has the billions and I just have me.

You can cover a girl with fancy makeup, false eyelashes, hair extensions, stage-worthy clothes, and strip off my extra ten pounds by starving me half to death, but it doesn’t change who I am at heart. I’m still a girl from East Kentucky with big dreams and an even bigger fear of failure—because I don’t want to go back to Gold Haven. There’s nothing left there for me anymore, much to my gut-wrenching regret.

When I snap myself out of my impromptu trip down my pothole-riddled memory lane, I find Creighton waiting, that damn eyebrow raised.

“Please, by all means, continue.” My accent comes out stronger, and I blame it on my thoughts of home and the fact that if his rules have any impact on my career, we’re going to have a problem.

He narrows his eyes. “Rule one: I like sex. I plan to have a lot of it. With you.”

Well, then. The man certainly doesn’t beat around the bush. “I got that one.”

“If that’s going to be a problem for you, my lawyers can—”

And there it is, the threat to end the marriage, which would put my career in jeopardy.

“End this marriage faster than it started?” I say quickly, interrupting him. “Because sex isn’t a problem for me. I know what I signed up for. It’s not like I think you married me because you found my conversational skills riveting. I just didn’t realize I was going to be spreading my legs on command. I thought you’d at least, you know, pretend like I wasn’t a whore. Although I guess that’s all I really am. A really expensive whore.”

Creighton’s narrowed eyes turn absolutely molten. “Don’t you fucking call yourself a whore.”

“Then don’t treat me like one.”

We stare each other down, and I wait for his response. I’m expecting something along the lines of “I’ll treat you however I want to treat you,” but what I get instead is something completely unexpected.

“I’m sorry.”

An apology?

“That wasn’t well done of me. I may be a demanding asshole, but that’s not exactly my style.”

“Does that mean you don’t want shower sex?” I’m pretty sure it’s the slutty devil on my shoulder shoving these words into my mouth, because I certainly wasn’t planning to say that.

Creighton’s smile is lazy, predatory, and his eyes are hot and hard.

“I didn’t say that, Holly. In fact, right now there’s nothing I’d rather do more than walk you right back into that bathroom, strip you naked, and fuck you against the wall until you beg me to let you come.”

My mind skips back to our first night together. It isn’t lost on me that the man likes control. The last time we had sex that night, he toyed with me, refusing to let me come until I begged and pleaded—and then he took me. I’ve never had that before, and I was pretty sure I’d never have that again. Which was depressing to think about, because it was . . . amazing. My objection this morning wasn’t to the sex, but to the way he spoke to me.

And with his apology, maybe there’s hope for us yet.

I decide to take the first step, a peace offering, per se. I set the ice on the table beside me, stand, and snag the hem of my T-shirt. I pull it up and over my head, and drop it on the floor. Creighton’s lips twitch into that sexy smirk I’m already starting to recognize.

“Then maybe we should postpone the rest of this conversation indefinitely?” I say.

“I like the sound of that.”

I take one step toward the bathroom, and he says, “Stop.”

I meet his eyes, and he holds out the shirt.

I look at it in confusion. “What?”

“Put it back on.”

“I don’t understand.”

Creighton reaches for my hand, places the shirt in it, and curls my fingers around the soft cotton.

“I told you I was going to strip you naked and fuck you in the shower. I didn’t say you were going to strip for me.”


But I don’t protest. I think it’s the promise of the orgasms looming on the horizon, and the way he’s looking at me with scorching heat in his eyes. Shaking out the shirt, I pull it back over my head and turn to head for the bathroom.

Creighton stalks me as I make my way back through the master suite into the crazy-nice bathroom. I pause in front of the huge glass shower enclosure and wait.

The heat radiating from his big body penetrates the thin cotton fabric I’m wearing, and I wait for whatever he’s going to do next. The anticipation is almost a tangible thing.

His mouth must be only half an inch from my ear, because his breath ghosts along it when he says, “Get inside.”

I open my mouth to protest, because I’m still wearing the shirt and underwear.

“Now, Holly.”

The order sends shivers racing down my spine. Unlike before, his tone is smoothly seductive and commanding rather than condescending. It’s intoxicating and impossible to ignore.