The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

by Nadia Lee

  “Ten,” I say, although I haven’t been counting at all. It just seems like the right number, because he’s been at it long enough. “But if you want, you can keep going. Nobody’s stopping you.”

  “Ten means I’m done with this set. Time for a break.”

  Nooo, don’t break now. Disappointment floods me. He should’ve told me that before we started. I would’ve said four.

  He releases the bar and glances at me over a shoulder. He wipes his forehead with a towel he left on the bench nearby.

  “Is it also hydration time?” I ask, proffering the lime-green Gatorade bottle.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I hand it to him. He tilts his head back, and his throat works as he swallows. Holy cow. That’s hot, too. How can he make drinking sexy? I never found an Adam’s apple interesting until now.

  You have it bad.

  No kidding.

  He gives me the bottle and goes back to the machine to do more of that erotic back exercise. All right, the exercise itself probably isn’t considered erotic, but it looks erotic to me, so I’m calling it erotic.

  Declan does eleven reps.

  “Ten,” I call out. “You’re done with that set.”

  “You sure it was ten?”

  “Yes.” I give him my most trustworthy smile.

  The eleventh rep is a bonus for my leg wound from yesterday. Workers’ comp because his naked torso flexing is going to help lessen my stress, which in turn will help me heal faster.

  While he’s resting, I pull out my phone and group-text my friends.

  –Me: Hey, how can I get a guy to exercise totally nude?

  –Jo: Are you watching your boss work out?

  –Me: Cannot confirm or deny. NDA. Anyway, any ideas?

  –Ivy: I want pictures.

  –Evie: Videos. I think they’ll help me with peace of mind and cankles.

  –Nate: I’ll exercise nude for you, sweetie. Live, too.

  I giggle a little. Nate would roll on an anthill covered in honey to make Evie happy. But no matter what he does, it’s not going to come close to Declan when it comes to sexiness. I steal a glance at my boss, who’s taking another swig of his sports drink. Look at that sweat rolling down his chest. Damn. Even his sweat is sexy.

  –Pascal: He isn’t running, is he? Nude would involve dangling…

  The image that puts in my head is ridiculous, but I don’t know if it’s going to be like that if Declan does it. He makes drinking look hotter than stripping.

  –Court: Ugh. I didn’t need that.

  –Edgar: I don’t recommend running or weightlifting in the nude.

  –Jo: How come?

  –Edgar: Ball control.

  –Tony: Exactly. What if something gets caught? You risk permanent damage.

  –Nate: Ow.

  –Court: No organ transplants for nads.

  I picture Nate and Court shuddering dramatically and burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Declan asks.

  “Just something my friends are saying.”

  “About what?”

  “Organ transplants.”

  He looks utterly confused. I just smile because I am not going to discuss genitalia transplants with him. “Are you done now?”

  “One more set.”

  “Want me to wipe the sweat off you?” I’m not trying to put my hands on him. It doesn’t count because it’ll be too indirect—through a towel.

  “No, but you can dry my hair after I shower if you want.” He winks before going back to his back machine.

  Ooh. Freshly shampooed hair to play with. “Deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Yuna

  After dinner with Tony and Ivy, I head to my room. I take a quick shower, plug my phone in to charge and check for messages before bed. In the U.S. or not, I’m still in charge of the Ivy Foundation for the moment. Even though I told Eugene to run it, I don’t trust him to do a good job, and I don’t want students to suffer because of a disagreement between me and my brother.

  On top of that, I know he hasn’t replaced me yet because I haven’t heard from a successor about the transition.

  But my mind isn’t on the messages. I’m thinking about how Declan’s hair felt against my fingers when I blow-dried it after he got out of the shower. His shampoo smelled amazing, something minty and woody. It was all I could do to not bury my nose in it and inhale like an addict sniffing glue. And every strand was so soft and silky. Surprising for a guy. Maybe he could do some kind of shampoo commercial. I’d totally buy a bottle.

  But then a news article trending high on a Korean news site snags my attention. It mentions the H group, shorthand for Hae Min. Korean news often uses initials to report because of the country’s defamation and privacy laws.

  I go back and read it more slowly, wondering what the media vultures are on about.

  H group’s daughter-in-law K got into a car crash. The other party was a bike, and the driver is seriously injured. K was rushed to the hospital. The other person in the car with her was also hospitalized. No alcohol was involved. Police are still investigating.

  My blood chills. “H group’s daughter-in-law K” is how some reporters refer to Eugene’s wife Sera because her family name is Kwon. Korean women do not take their husband’s name after marriage. My knees shaking, I plop down on the edge of the bed. The article didn’t say the passenger in the car was Eugene. Otherwise it would’ve said K’s spouse H. And it isn’t their son, either, because the article didn’t say it was a child.

  I call Eugene to see how he’s holding up. I wish I were in Korea, because this is the kind of stuff you need to be with your family for, even if you had a disagreement. Nothing unites us like a crisis.

  The second he picks up, I say, “Are you okay? How about Sera? And little Minho?”

  “Your nephew is fine. He was home when the accident happened.” Eugene’s voice is unnaturally calm, which makes me sad for him and his wife, because it demonstrates just how little love they share. If Ivy had been in an accident, Tony would be flipping out.

  But then, Eugene never panics. It’s kind of his thing, and why he makes a fantastic executive.

  “How can he be fine when his mom’s hurt?” The calmness might serve him well at work, but it makes him a pretty crummy daddy to a little boy who needs the comfort only his parents can give.

  “I haven’t told him what’s going on yet. He thinks his mom’s staying with her mother for a while.”

  “That’s smart.” Minho’s too young to understand that people don’t die from every little owie. “But what about her injuries?”

  Eugene makes a dismissive sound. “Thousands of broken wrists heal without any trouble every day.”

  Is that mild irritation in his tone? I know he can be cold, but this is a whole new level. It’s disappointing, even if she can be a bit of a drama queen. “How can you be annoyed? She didn’t mean to get into an accident.”

  Eugene breathes out softly. “I’m not annoyed. I’m tired, and now I have another thing I have to handle.”

  “She’s your wife.”

  He makes a noise in his throat. It’s the one he always makes when he doesn’t necessarily want to agree with you. I don’t understand how he can be so detached. Maybe it’s because their marriage is mainly a business arrangement. After all, the only positive thing he can say about his wife is that they have a son.

  My God. This is going to be my future if I don’t hold out. I’m never, ever going to marry one of the dossiers!

  “How about the other person in the car? Was it a friend? And the bike rider?” I ask finally, since I know Eugene won’t discuss his wife with me any more.

  “Our lawyers are dealing with everything. And the PR team is going to make sure all the articles come down or get buried.”

  An uncomfortable lump forms in my belly. “Was she driving drunk?” The article I read said no, but it could’ve been a lie or misreported. I can’t think of any other reason tha
t Eugene would want to keep it quiet, like it never happened.

  “No. It’s simply what we decided would be best at the corporate level. Her parents agreed as well.”

  That is weird. Her parents also head a rich conglomerate—another chaebol—so I know they aren’t agreeing because they’re being coerced by Eugene. But they want this buried? And when there’s no alcohol involved? It’s a lot of work and expense for basically nothing.

  This has to be more than your everyday accident. But Eugene obviously isn’t going to tell me any of the details over the phone.

  “Do you need me back?” I ask. No matter what, if something happens with the family, we stick together. On top of that, my sister-in-law might want some support that she isn’t getting from my cold-blooded brother. I’d feel bad about taking time off so soon, but hopefully Declan will understand if I explain the situation.

  “There’s no need. Tell me how you’re doing in L.A.”

  From Eugene’s slightly warmer tone, I understand he doesn’t want to talk about the crash and he is genuinely curious about my situation here. Maybe he just needs more time to sort it out in his head.

  “I’m doing fine,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone casually smug, rather than impatient, because what I really want to do is talk about the accident and how he’s feeling about everything. “I got a job.”

  “And a place to stay?” he asks, his tone slightly condescending. He might as well just come out and say, “I know you’re leeching.”

  “I’m staying with Ivy and paying rent. So don’t worry. I’m not mooching off her.”

  “I didn’t know she was in the rental business.”

  That’s where his focus is. Rentals. “She isn’t. She’s making an exception for me. Says it’s dangerous to live alone in an apartment.”

  “She’s right. You can’t even walk the streets at night alone safely in Los Angeles.” Unlike Korea, and that’s Eugene’s standard. Mom’s and Dad’s as well.

  “Anyway, I’m safe and gainfully employed.”

  “If you’ll just come back and see candidate number ninety, you can have your people back.”

  And get myself a husband who reacts like he’s bored if I get into an auto accident? No thanks. “If you’d just accept that I’m smart and independent enough to take care of myself…”

  “We’ll see how long you last. I say you’ll quit within two months.”

  Dream on. You don’t know me well enough if you think I’ll give up that easily. “And I say I won’t. I’ll stick it out and you’ll unfreeze my accounts. And you’ll also give me unlimited access that can never be frozen because I’m not doing this BS again.”

  “Then we’ll discuss it after a couple of months.” A short pause. “I have to go to a meeting. I’ll talk with you when you’re ready to wave the white flag.”

  I laugh a little. Even if I were thinking about giving up, I’m not doing it after this conversation. “Uh-huh. Have a productive day. I’m going to bed, so I can wake up refreshed and win this bet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Declan

  Something tickles my subconscious. Something soft and pretty and fragile. I sigh, wishing Yuna were here, running her fingers through my hair again. It felt so good when she dried my hair. Her fingertips massaged my scalp, although I don’t think she meant to do that. But her hands are so strong that it turned out that way.

  My super-efficient dryer works too well, though. It only took a second for her to be finished. I should get myself a cheap, no-name dryer the size of my palm from Target. Maybe grow my hair out, too.

  The soft, pretty and fragile something continues to tickle my mind. It obviously isn’t me fantasizing about Yuna’s hands on me.

  Finally, I open my eyes. It’s still dark in my bedroom, but I can hear a faint melody coming from downstairs.

  Did I forget to shut down the connection between the piano and the iPad? I could’ve forgotten to turn off the setting… But still, why would the instrument start playing at night?

  I turn over, the sheets tangling around my bare body. The music’s soft—the piece Yuna performed before she started Schubert. It’s slow and should be calming, but it’s not. I turn, dragging the sheets with me. My nerves seem too alive, just like every time I’m near Yuna. But she’s gone home. So it has to be the music, reminding me of her.

  There’s no way I can go back to sleep. Sighing, I get up and walk down the stairs to turn the piano off…then stop.

  What the fuck…?

  Yuna is sitting at the piano, her eyes lowered, her hands moving. Only the full moon provides light in the living room, bathing her in silver. She’s in the same dress she wore earlier, but now the zipper’s half undone, down to her mid-back, and the fabric is falling off one slender shoulder. Her feet are bare, her shoes abandoned next to the pedals.

  She’s a tantalizing gift, partially unwrapped. And instead of calling 911 like a rational, sane celebrity faced with a stalker employee, I want to strip that dress the rest of the way off.

  Why the hell not? I’m nude, and I want her to see the rest of what she couldn’t see earlier today in the gym.

  A searing heat begins to build within me…and that’s not the only thing rising. Each note from the piano sounds like a lover’s caress, and I want Yuna to run those long, talented fingers over my bare skin.

  I breathe quietly as illicit sensations run through me, feeling like a voyeur. But I’m not satisfied with just watching. My fingers itch to feel her.

  She looks up. Our eyes meet. I can’t read the nuance of her expression. Moonlight or not, it’s too dark. But she doesn’t seem surprised at getting caught. I can see her mouth curve in the shadows.

  She stands up. It seems to happen in slow motion, her body creating curving feminine contours that shift and stretch all the way up. The piano continues to play. Wait…wasn’t she performing?

  She comes closer, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. There’s a brightness in her eyes that enthralls me. I would stay rooted to the spot even if the house were on fire.

  Her dress shifts, sliding further down until one rounded breast is almost revealed.

  She stops only a couple of inches away, almost touching, close enough I can feel her body heat. I lick my suddenly dry lips. She reaches down and wraps her fingers around my erection. I bite back a curse. Her hand is soft, but also strong from years of playing the piano. She runs a finger across the tip, then slowly lifts it, glistening with my fluid, and slides it between her lips. Her cheeks hollow.

  It’s hotter than anything I’ve ever seen, and my control cracks. I start to reach for her, but she takes a quick half-step back, making me stop.

  She gives me a small smile and sinks slowly to her knees. I feel her breath over my dick, making my muscles jerk. Her hot mouth envelops me; her head moves.

  My vision goes hazy with lust. I don’t want to come like this. I want to spread her legs and push inside her and come that way, the two of us joined. But her fingers hold me in place and her lips and tongue will not be denied.

  “Fuck,” I say as an orgasm grips me.

  She pulls off as I ejaculate. It hits her on the cheek and chin. The fluid drips as she stands.

  I’ve never come on a woman’s face before, never really had the interest, but seeing my semen on her is oddly dirty and erotic. Like I’m marking her as mine.

  She runs a finger along the messy side of her face, then licks it. “Mmm. You feed me the tastiest things. Guess you meet one of my requirements.”

  My erection doesn’t subside. I stay rigid as iron, and her eyebrows quirk. Some primitive need I can’t deny clenches me. I grip my dick and jerk hard twice. And I’m spurting again, the white semen shooting out hard enough to hit her dress this time.

  A loud, jarring sound comes from my left. Yuna swivels her head and steps away.

  “Don’t—!” I say.

  …but it’s too late.

  She’s gone, leaving me holding my dick—literally�
�in the living room.

  The jarring sound comes again. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them when the clamoring doesn’t stop.

  The familiar ceiling of my bedroom. Slanting sunlight coming in through the windows. What the—?

  Breathing hard, I look down. I’m still holding my dick in my hand. And I’ve made a mess on the sheets.

  Fuck. What am I? Sixteen?

  The phone keeps ringing. It’s five thirty. I answer it. Probably Benedict with some emergency. Then I remember he’s off. Is it Yuna, then?

  “Declan,” I say, my voice rough.

  “Dude, what’s going on? I thought we were going to run together this morning?” It’s Aiden, sounding very annoyed.

  I start to put my free hand over my eyes, but stop when I realize it’s wet and sticky. Ugh. I wipe it on the sheet, which will have to be laundered in any case. “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Did you? Because you sound like you’ve been running. Did you go out by yourself?”

  “I was running to get the phone.” No way am I telling him I had a wet dream about Yuna. Aiden would never let me live it down. “And I was working late, reading a script for a meeting with a director on Friday,” I add, “which is why I overslept.”

  “Ohhh, I see.” Aiden’s voice is a parody of understanding. “I figured maybe your new assistant jumped you and cracked your femur or something.”

  I wish Yuna had jumped me. Actually, forget jumping. We could just have what we were doing earlier in my dream. With some modifications. Like going to my bed. And me stripping her and having my way with her. It’s a crime I didn’t get to see her come, even if it was just a dream.

  “She’s a good and, uh, proper assistant,” I manage.

  A good, proper assistant who I had a wet dream about. Jesus.

  “I’m going to run later,” I say. “Anyway, we should get together. My treat for missing the run today.”

  “Okay. I’ll let you know a time after I check my schedule.”

  “That works,” I say, then hang up and toss the phone on the pillow next to me.

  Yuna’s going to be here in about three hours. I should try to get my body under control.