Page 42 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

I watched her as she took a seat at the window bench seat. She looked beautiful, a small amount of makeup just accentuating her features, and she glowed with the kind of post-orgasmic clarity you could bottle and sell for a fortune.

“Morning,” she said, as if last night hadn’t happened. As if we hadn’t spent three hours tangled up in one another as I mapped every inch of her with tongue and teeth, memorizing the taste of her until I was drunk on it.

“Morning,” I replied. My voice was shredded. I sat across from her, hands folded tight, and forced my attention to the coffee.

She tucked into the space like she’d been born to it. “Did you sleep?” she asked, and the tilt of her head, mocking, soft, made it clear she already knew the answer.

“Not much.” I gripped the cup, internally demanding myself to keep calm and unflappable, like I was supposed to be. “You?”

She smiled, and something hot flashed in my gut. “Like a baby. Out cold before I could even change into pajamas.” The way she said it, like she hadn’t passed out with me, sleeping so adorably I couldn’t imagine a night without her now, and heat surged through me with a white-hot need that demanded to be acknowledged.

Seemingly unaffected, she bit into a croissant Maribel had left a basket of in the middle of the table, forgoing jam or anything else, flakes scattering.

“Maribel thinks you’re mad this morning. She thinks she’s being punished for some coffee incident.” She was too flippant, too calm, too unaffected by our night together. Nothing short of a medal for her acting skills was appropriate. Or was she truly unbothered? Perhaps she was used to these kinds of relationships, flings that meant nothing to her and then back to life as normal.

Somehow, I seriously doubted that. Her movements last night were full of surprise. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn I was the first to make her orgasm judging by her wild eyes and unrestrained thrashing.

I frowned. “I don’t punish people for honest mistakes.”

She didn’t bother hiding the smile. “You punish them for the dishonest ones?”

I bristled. “I expect discipline.”

“Of course,” she said, but her tone was syrupy, and the heat rose in my face. I looked away, furious with myself for letting her rattle me.

There was a pause. She picked up a blueberry with her fingers, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “You know, you don’t have to pretend nothing happened.”

I jerked my gaze back to her. “Nothing did happen.”

She held the berry aloft, looking at me past it, and grinned. “Liar.”

I slammed my hand on the table before I could stop myself. The sound rang out, sharp, and the silverware jumped. She didn’t flinch, but she did set the blueberry down.

“Sorry,” I said, though the word tasted like poison.

She leaned in, forearms on the marble, and lowered her voice. “If you want to talk about it, we can. If you want to pretend it didn’t happen, that’s fine, too. But maybe don’t break your own furniture in the process.”

I ground my teeth. “You’re very…collected, this morning.”

She popped the berry in her mouth, chewed slow. “Shouldn’t I be?”

I tried to come up with a reason. Something rational, adult, aboveboard. “You don’t find this-” I gestured between us, helpless “-complicated?”

She thought about it, her delicate throat flexing as she swallowed. The motion, the thought, had me shifting in place and discreetly palming my hard cock. “It’s as complicated as you want it to be.”

I wanted to throttle her. Or fuck her on the table. Or both. “I want it to be simple,” I said. “I want things to go back to normal.”

She studied me, eyes bright and intent. “Define normal.”

I opened my mouth, but the word didn’t exist. There was no “normal” with her. From the first second, she’d derailed every plan, every protocol, every certainty I’d ever trusted. I could no longer imagine a single day without her voice ricocheting off the inside of my skull.

Taking deep breath, I clenched my hands under the table. I could still feel the outline of her hips in my fingers. The pulse at her throat when I’d bitten the sensitive skin there, marking her.The exact pitch of her moan when she’d finally, finally let go and let me see her come undone, surrendering to me, giving her all and taking what I offered.

She leaned back, stretching. The turtleneck rode up, exposing a sliver of midriff, pale and soft and utterly, stupidly distracting.

My voice was low, hoarse. “You don’t regret it?”

She blinked, then smiled. “God, no. Do you?”