The Deal--A Sexy Billionaire Romance

by Clare Connelly

  But he breaks the kiss and reaches across me. I hear a drawer and then something metallic. His hands curve around my wrists; he pulls them to the bedframe and then cold metal surrounds me. I pull on my hands. They’re cuffed to the bed.

  I stare up at him, my eyes wide, lips parted.

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  My stomach swirls with acid. ‘With all my heart.’

  His smile is sensual. A second later, his hands are trailing over my flesh, so light, barely touching me, and I’m crying his name out over and over. His mouth follows them, his tongue flicking my nipples, as he moves lower with his hands, spreading my legs to make way for his mouth.

  His tongue is gentle at first, running over my seam, exploring me, rediscovering me. I thrash from side to side, my handcuffed wrists a new form of torture as I ache to touch him or touch myself, to do something to relieve this tidal wave of sensation.

  ‘Please,’ I groan, incapable of saying anything else. He keeps my legs pinned wide as he sucks my clit into his mouth and flicks it with his tongue. I am on fire; I am burning up. ‘Please,’ I whimper, needing him, needing more, needing everything.

  He pulls away, up my body, his mouth finding my nipples, his hands roaming my skin freely, inquiringly, and I’m so hungry for him I can barely cope. I need to feel him inside me.

  ‘I want you,’ I beg.

  ‘I know.’ His smile is tighter now, tension on his face. He pauses, rolling a condom over his length, and hope is a beast inside me.

  His eyes hold mine as he pushes his rock-hard arousal into my wet core; my muscles spasm around him and I jerk against the handcuffs, wanting to touch him now, to feel his muscles bunch beneath me as I run my hands over his skin.

  His laugh is soft, a caress against my skin. He moves inside me, deeper, and I groan, surrendering to this completely. My body is an instrument and he plays me with perfection.

  * * *

  Dawn is coming. Even in winter, when the sun rises later, nothing staves off morning’s eventual appearance. I watch him sleep, my own eyes heavy, my mind heavier, my heart a dead weight.

  I love him, and I have no hope that he loves me back. For me, this has been completely unprecedented. For Nicholas, this is his life, his norm. I have no reason to think anything has changed for him since we started up with this, whereas all the boundaries of my world have shifted.

  My eyes run over his beautiful face, disbelief curdling my insides.

  This is so much harder than I thought it would be.

  I shift in the bed.

  A coffee will help.

  I step out quietly, drawing one of his shirts from the wardrobe and pulling it over my nakedness as I prowl through to the kitchen.

  It’s snowed overnight. When I look down from the windows, I see the pavement is white like chalk, cars covered in a pale, sparkling blanket. I press a button on the coffee machine, cursing as it stirs to life. Even though it’s quiet, it’s not silent, and I look towards his bedroom door in time to see Nicholas shifting in bed. He looks for me and my heart groans, because I’m his first thought on waking.

  How can this be the end?

  He disappears from view and a second later steps into the lounge area, a pair of grey boxer shorts low on his hips. My eyes find his tattoo on autopilot; acid coats the inside of my mouth.

  ‘Is it even morning?’ he asks groggily, his face showing bemusement.

  ‘I have to get going,’ I say, my own voice tight like a wire that’s been pulled too taut.

  His eyes focus blearily on his watch. ‘It’s five o’clock.’

  ‘I know.’ I pull the coffee from the machine and cup it in my hands. I keep my back propped against the kitchen bench. I hope it looks nonchalant. I hope I seem better than I feel.

  ‘Come back to bed.’

  My heart groans. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  I swallow, focussing on the black liquid inside my cup. ‘Because we said this would be the end. And I have to go.’

  I don’t think the stilted statements make much sense, and this is confirmed when I lift my attention to his face. ‘Stay.’

  ‘A few more hours?’

  ‘No.’ He frowns. ‘I don’t have to be in England until New Year’s Eve. Spend Christmas with me.’

  I feel as if I’m being stretched on the rack. ‘What?’

  ‘A week’s extension on our original deal?’ His tone is teasing.

  Something shifts in my chest, something painful. ‘Why?’

  He shrugs his shoulders casually. ‘Why not?’

  My knees tremble. Fire spits through my veins. It’s so close to what I want, but, now that I understand how I feel, being with Nicholas for another night—let alone seven—would just be too hard.

  ‘Because, I can’t.’

  His expression is sceptical. I draw in a deep breath. ‘I have to get back to my normal life,’ I say emphatically—my normal life is my lifeline. It’s the talisman for who I used to be. ‘I have the Christmas drive for Chance, and the Christmas lunch I do every year.’ I bite down on my lip, looking away from him because I can’t bear to look into his eyes for another moment. ‘I can’t.’

  The last word wobbles a little. I sip the coffee to stave off some kind of emotional scene.

  ‘One more week.’

  ‘No.’ I am emphatic. I speak as if my life depends on it, and in many ways it does.

  He’s quiet a moment. ‘I don’t understand. Last night was...amazing. You’re saying you don’t want more of this?’

  ‘We said a month,’ I murmur. ‘We were clear about this. The Christmas benefit was to be the end.’

  ‘And that’s what you want?’

  I open my mouth to say something, but what can I say? That yes, I want more. I want too much more. How did this happen? The club and Chance have been my total priority for so long and I would have sworn they always would be, but now there’s something—someone—else who matters just as much, and despite the fact I swore this would be fun and casual and no-strings, despite the fact I initially loved the boundaries we put in place, I want to push against them now. I’m in love with him, and I know he doesn’t love me back, but, God, I can’t ignore how I feel.

  ‘Damn it, Imogen, it was an arbitrary line in the sand you decided on. Why can’t we shift it by one fucking week?’

  His anger sparks my own. I can no longer control my feelings, my rawness. ‘Because a week isn’t nearly enough, Nicholas. I don’t want just one more week with you. I want a lifetime, okay?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HER STATEMENT HANGS between us like a thousand and one daggers. I stare at her; nothing makes sense. I must have misunderstood.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  She sips her coffee, her face pale, her features drawn.

  She’s so quiet and impatience is slicing through me.

  ‘For God’s sake, Imogen, that doesn’t make sense. What do you mean?’

  Her eyes are huge and hollow, emotions rushing through her that I can’t comprehend. All I want is to keep this fun going—and it is fun. This last month has been one of the best of my life. I love spending time with Imogen. I love hanging out with her. God knows, I love fucking her.

  ‘I’m in love with you.’ Her eyes pierce me, accusation in them, anger too. I am silent, grappling with the words as though maybe I’ve misunderstood, as though I’ve magicked them up out of my deepest fears.

  ‘What?’

  Her smile is laced with self-condemnation. ‘I fell in love with you. It was the last thing I thought would happen, and honestly I have no idea how it did happen. Without meaning to and without me even realising, somehow you’ve become a part of me. And I can’t just pretend I don’t love you, and go back to sleeping with you and dating you and getting to know you when inside my heart is breaking.’


  I’m silent. I’m completely floored.

  ‘It’s fine.’ She smiles but her eyes look moist. ‘I know you’re not in love with me. I’m not telling you this because I’m hoping you’ll get down on one knee and propose marriage.’

  She swallows; I still can’t speak.

  ‘But I can’t spend another week with you, sharing my life—my body—with you, knowing that you’ll never be able to give me the one thing I really want.’ She pauses for a second, her cheeks growing pink. ‘I’m sorry to deprive you of a week of sex, but I have no doubt you can find someone else to fill your bed until you leave.’

  My ears are filled with a screeching noise and everything in the room is too white, too bright, as if it’s been overexposed or something.

  ‘What?’

  Fuck. That’s not right. Focus. Concentrate. Say something better.

  She shakes her head sadly and panic surges in my chest. ‘Imogen, you know...’ I groan, drag a hand through my hair. ‘It’s not you.’

  ‘But it is me. And it’s the fact I fell in love with you, and you don’t love me, and if I stay with you another night, I’m going to feel... I’m going to feel...a thousand things, and none of them good.’

  ‘Love was never on my radar.’ It’s a stupid thing to say but I’m grappling with her statement, desperately trying to make sense of it.

  Her eyes spit fire. ‘Do you think it was on mine?’

  ‘No.’ My own frustration comes through in the word.

  ‘Damn straight. I love that we had rules and boundaries and that this was—in theory—simple fun. But it’s different now, everything’s different, and I would hate myself if I didn’t admit that. To myself, and to you.’

  Her eyes close for a moment and I feel as if the ground has just swallowed me up. I’m falling and beneath me are the very fires of hell.

  I hate hurting her. The realisation is like a punch in my gut. I’m hurting Imogen and this was always about helping her. About pleasuring her. And now I’ve hurt her and I can’t believe that.

  I need to make it better. I have to make her understand.

  ‘You are incredible. Some guy, some day, is going to win the lottery when you fall for him.’

  ‘But not you,’ she murmurs, her eyes huge in her face. My chest kicks.

  ‘Not me.’

  She nods, but, God, her lip is trembling and I feel like a monster.

  ‘Once, I believed in love, and it was a disaster.’ I move closer, needing her to feel the sincerity of my words. ‘I honestly believed I loved Saffy and when we broke up, it was like being woken from a dream I’ll never find my way back to again. I don’t want to find my way back there. I don’t want to feel like that. I don’t want to think I love someone. I don’t want to give anyone else that power over me.’ I lift a hand to her cheek and almost swear when she flinches out of my reach, as if I’ve shocked her with raw electricity.

  ‘You are your own,’ she says, but archly, with a hint of anger that I’m ridiculously glad about—I much prefer anger to the brokenness that confronted me a minute ago.

  ‘Yes.’ I am relieved. ‘I’m my own, I belong only to myself, and that’s the way I like it. I’m sorry, Imogen. I’m sorry if I did anything to make you hope for a future here. I thought I was clear—’

  ‘Oh, you were.’ The words are weary. ‘Which just shows what an idiot I am.’

  ‘No, Imogen...’ But what can I say? She’s right. Any woman who would fall in love with me needs her head examined. I try again. ‘I think we should forget I suggested this.’ I clench my jaw. ‘I’ll go back to England, as planned. I’m sorry. I didn’t want this—I didn’t have any idea you were developing feelings for me or I would have ended it sooner. I’m sorry,’ I say again. Though it’s manifestly insufficient, I have no idea what else I can say.

  Silence wraps around us, a prickly, angry silence like the icy morning after a winter’s storm.

  ‘You are a goddamned coward, Lord Rothsmore.’ She bites my future title out with disgust. Her statement crashes around me and I don’t speak, because she needs to get this off her chest and I’m okay with that. I have to be—I’m breaking her heart. She finishes her coffee, placing the cup down hard on the bench top.

  ‘You’re too scared to let yourself feel this.’ Her eyes lance me. ‘You think you’re the only person to be hurt? You think that means you need to put yourself in emotional stasis for the rest of your life? How is that even going to work? You’re going to go home and make a sensible marriage and what? Feel nothing for your wife?’

  I don’t want to talk to Imogen about my future. Suddenly, the plans I’ve set in place chasm before me like an awful void. I grind my teeth together, trying to focus, trying to work out what I can say that will make this better.

  I have to fix this.

  ‘That’s how it works,’ I say quietly, calmly, even when I’m not calm.

  ‘And that’s what you want?’

  I stare at her for several long seconds, pulling myself back mentally. ‘I have accepted what is required of me,’ I correct. ‘And nothing is going to change that.’

  She is so pale.

  ‘I feel like we were clear about this from the start,’ I say softly, and tears sparkle on her lashes.

  ‘Hasn’t anything changed for you since then?’

  My gut churns hard. I shake my head. It can’t. I can’t do this. ‘No.’

  * * *

  No. The word is emphatic. I look at him, my heart no longer in my chest. I have no idea what happened to it. Maybe it withered and died completely?

  He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t want me—or at least, only for another week. I think about that, and wonder if I can shelve my own feelings, purely to squeeze every moment out of this that we possibly can. But there’s no way.

  I can’t do it.

  I move away from him, towards my ball gown that is discarded in the lounge, where he removed it last night. It’s beautiful, but all I can think of is that it’s what I wore on our last night together.

  My throat feels as though it’s been scraped with sandpaper.

  ‘Imogen, listen to me.’ His voice is gravelled. I don’t stop what I’m doing. In fact, I move faster, pulling the dress up over my hips, discarding his shirt with my back to him. It’s ridiculous to want to shield my nakedness, given what we’ve shared, and yet I do.

  ‘I care about you, okay?’ His voice is so deep, so rough. ‘If things had been different, maybe this could have worked out, but I’m not the guy you want me to be. I don’t even believe in love, I don’t believe in happy endings. I believe in this.’

  When I look around, he’s gesturing from his chest, towards me.

  ‘I believe in the power of a resounding physical chemistry, and I believe in respect and civility. I believe in fun.’

  ‘You have turned partying into an art form all so you can avoid feeling any kind of emotional connection with someone. You’re living with your head in the sand and you don’t even realise it.’

  ‘And what exactly are you doing, Imogen? You haven’t had sex or even dated a guy in four years and you tell me I’m the one who has my head in the sand?’

  ‘I put my life on hold to run Chance,’ I fire back, anger sharp in my mind. ‘I don’t have much of a social life but that’s because I want to make the world better. You spend all your time having frivolous, meaningless affairs because you’re shit scared of feeling anything for anyone. All because you loved someone once and she didn’t want to marry you.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he curses, his eyes sharp with fierce determination and frustration. ‘This is spectacularly unreasonable.’

  I suck in an indignant breath.

  ‘Do you think you have any right to lecture me? You’re the one who’s moved the goalposts. You’re shitty at me because I don’t love you, when love wasn’t
even on the cards. Ever.’

  I drop my head forward a second, his words like ice cubes, but ones I need to feel.

  ‘I never expected you to love me. I’m just telling you why I can’t spend another week with you.’

  He holds my gaze even as I feel regret shift inside him.

  ‘I told you to forget I suggested that. I’m sorry.’

  I stiffen my spine, fixing him with my best Imogen Carmichael expression. I am the founder of The Billionaires’ Club, founder of Chance, and I will not let him see how badly this is hurting me. Even as tears fill my throat, my eyes, my soul, I stare him down.

  ‘So this is really what you want?’

  A muscle jerks in his jaw and I sense his indecision, but I also sense his stubborn determination and I know what his answer will be, even before he says it. ‘It has to be.’

  ‘Don’t. That’s a cop-out.’

  ‘Damn it.’ He drags a hand through his hair. ‘What do you want me to say? That I want you to go? That I’m sorry I hurt you and that I wish we hadn’t got involved? That if I’d known we’d be having this conversation I would have left it with one perfect, sublime night in Sydney?’

  His words are like knives, sailing through the air, each one slamming into me. He softens his voice but it’s no less empathic. ‘Do you want me to say that I don’t love you? That I wish you didn’t love me? That I don’t believe in love, that I don’t want it? That you and this has been great but it’s not my real life any more than I am yours?’

  A sob wells in my throat. I stare at him, unable to speak.

  ‘This was never about love,’ he adds for good measure. ‘We both know that.’

  I nod, slowly. I can feel a ticking time bomb in my chest; I have to get out of there before I cry.

  But he’s not prepared to let this go.

  ‘I don’t want it to end like this.’

  Nor do I. I don’t want it to end at all.

  I steel myself to face him one last time and my heart almost gallops away from me. ‘What difference does it make how it ends? It’s over.’