I shiver a little.
Dean frowns, gripping my leg slightly. “Hey. You can do this. Okay? Trust me.”
I nod. “You’re still an asshole, you know. You can’t just kidnap people and force them to pretend to be your fiancée.”
“Technically, you chose this. I’ll give you the kidnapping thing, but I gave you the perfectly reasonable choice to stay in the basement.”
“Yeah. Locked in the basement,” I say.
“Semantics,” he says dismissively. “Point is, this was your choice. So roll with it. Now c’mon. My brothers are probably ready to be relieved from babysitting duty.”
“Brothers?” I ask.
3
Dean
I help Camille out of the car and lead her inside my house. Just having my hand on her back and feeling how small she feels against me is doing dangerous things to my mind. Real fucking dangerous. But what the hell, I never said I couldn’t be attracted to her. Yeah, this is mostly just to protect her from that asshole, but I’d be lying to myself if I said my cock doesn’t stir every time I catch a glimpse of those full tits and her killer legs.
Does that make me feel a little guilty? Maybe. But fuck it. All the things I’ve made sacrifices for in my life have come with some guilt. I never said I was going to get in a real relationship with her. I can admire a beautiful woman without wanting to marry her, and I damn well plan to. Although, if I’m going to pretend to be in a relationship with her, would it really make a difference to Jen if it becomes something real?
“Jen?” I call out. “I have a surprise,” I say, looking at Camille once more to make sure she still seems to be on board.
Camille looks a little less confident than I would like, but it’s probably the best I can hope for, so I guide her through the foyer and beneath the second floor balcony to the living room. My twin brothers are suspiciously nowhere to be seen, and Jen is sitting on her knees in front of the coffee table, writing in a composition book. She’s in third grade this year, having skipped ahead means she’s the youngest in her class at only eight-years-old. I look at her now, really look at her. It’s the first time in too long that I’ve seen her without the distraction of work looking over me. I see so much of her mother in her--the black hair and big, intelligent eyes and even the mischievous turn of her lips.
Her mother. My stomach clenches like it always does when I see Jen. Technically she’s my niece, but when my sister, Jessica, passed away, her daughter was only two and the father wasn’t in the picture, so I took her in as my own.
“Your surprise will have to wait,” she says without looking up. Her voice sounds distracted. “I’ve just… about… finished. There!” she says, closing the book and sighing as she looks up. Her eyes narrow, then widen. Jen jumps to her feet. “Oh,” she says with a mixture of surprise and disappointment. “This is her?”
“Jen, this is Camille. My fiancée. Be nice,” I add.
Jen’s eyes go straight to Camille’s ringless finger. She steps up to Camille and lifts Camille's hand up toward my face. “Where’s the rock?”
I clear my throat, stalling. How did I not think about that? My mind is drawing a blank on excuses, but to my surprise, Camille saves me.
“Funny story,” says Camille. “I put it in my suitcase because I was afraid someone might steal it on the plane. Then they lost my luggage, so I probably won’t get it back for a couple days.”
Jen’s expression darkens. “If that’s funny, you have a strange sense of humor.”
“Ah, you--um,” stutters Camille.
“You should be knocking down their door, taking names and kicking butts,” she says. “We wouldn’t want anything to delay the wedding, after all. When is the wedding, by the way?” she asks, voice dripping with sarcastic excitement.
I wince a little. Jen has been desperate for me to bring a woman around the house, but I learned the hard way she’s not easy to please, and she seems to think it’s her duty to put anyone I bring home through a gauntlet of sarcasm, not-so-subtle sleights, and uncomfortable questions.
“Wedding?” asks a familiar voice.
My twin brothers, Murph and Tanner come inside from the patio, looking winded. Murph wears his curly blonde hair in a tight bun, where Tanner has his shaved. They’ve done their best to hide the fact that they are twins, but not many men are six foot five and built like twigs, so the connection is usually immediate for people.
“Aren’t you two supposed to be babysitting?” I ask them
“You keep calling it that,” says Jen. “But there are no babies here, so I told them to do the only part of their job they could do. Sit. And Murph was breathing so loud I couldn’t concentrate, so I told them to do their sitting outside.” She says all this with an air of satisfied justice, like she has just presented an airtight case that I couldn’t begin to pick apart.
“You let an eight-year-old order you out of the house?” I ask incredulously.
Murph stands slightly behind Tanner and points emphatically at his brother, mouthing something that looks a lot like his fault.
“You have to admit,” says Tanner. “For eight years old, she’s kind of scary.”
I shake my head. “You two are useless.”
“Hey now,” says Murph, stepping forward with his usual crooked grin. “Were we useless when you ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere?”
“That was ten years ago,” I say, “and if the most recent time you were useful was ten years ago, that should tell you something.”
Murph taps Tanner’s chest and leans in close, frowning. They both talk in low voices, nodding together finally as they break their little huddle and give me defiant looks.
“Last month,” says Tanner confidently. “Your phone was dead at the airport. Ringing any bells?” he asks. “You starting to remember whose charger you had to use?”
“Yeah,” adds Murph. “Remember how grateful you were. What was it he said, Tanner?”
“Something about not being able to live without us, I think,” says Tanner.
“Enough,” I say, feeling as though the stress of the last week is catching up with me all in a single moment. “Next time I ask you two to watch my daughter, I expect you to actually watch her.”
My brothers have the decency to at least look a little ashamed, and they both nod solemnly.
“Won’t happen again,” says Tanner.
“Yeah. She can’t take both of us, anyway.”
“Wanna bet?” asks Jen, who takes a quick step toward my brothers.
Murph flinches back, pulling his arms up and making a sound somewhere between a squeak and a bark.
“Break it up,” I say. “You guys are probably scaring Camille.”
“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I was actually just thinking Jen looks like she probably could take them.”
Jen gives Camille a grudging look of respect, but wipes it from her face quickly. “At least you did good picking a woman with some smarts, Daddy.”
“He did well,” corrects Murph. “Superman does good.”
Jen glares at him. “Don’t correct me, Uncle Murph. You’re the one who says ‘ex scape’ instead of escape.”
Murph gives Tanner an incredulous look.
“You do, bro,” says Tanner. “It’s an ‘S’ sound. Essscape. Not exxxxcape.”
“C’mon,” I say to Camille, taking her and leading her away from my brothers who are quickly descending into an argument while Jen plays referee. I take her upstairs and lead her through the hallway toward my wing of the house.
“How many square feet is this place?” she asks, swiveling her head as she takes everything in.
“That’s your question?” I ask, stopping and quirking a brow at her.
She laughs a little at herself. “I don’t know,” she says. “What am I supposed to talk about in this situation? Do you want me to beg to be let go? Do you want me to make threats?”
“Threats could be fun,” I say, pursing my lips thoughtfully.
“Wow,” I say, wincing. “That actually wasn’t fun. To answer your question, I have no idea how many square feet this house is.”
She continues to follow me down the hall, face unreadable. I lead her into my master bedroom and watch as her eyes narrow.
“You expect me to sleep in your bedroom with you?” she asks.
“Where else would my fiancée sleep?”
She doesn’t answer for a moment. “If Sean finds out…”
“Hey,” I say, taking her softly by the shoulder and leaning close. “That guy was weak. You get me? He was fucking weak, because if he had any real strength he wouldn’t have needed to beat on you. Men who hurt women are cowards, and if that coward so much as tries to come asking about you, I’ll remind him what a real man is capable of.”
“I don’t want you to hurt him,” she says, breaking eye contact with me.
She’s ashamed. She knows how she must sound, I can see it in the guilty way she can’t look at me, but this fucker has such a hold on her that she still cares about him. I can’t begrudge her that, but I sure as hell can keep her here until she gets him out of her system.
“You ever heard of an intervention?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Like when someone’s doing drugs or something and all their friends confront them and try to talk them into stopping?”
“Basically. Consider this an intervention, except I’m not your friend. And I’m kidnapping you,” I say, feeling the comparison start to fall apart a little. “Point is, you need to get Sean out of your system. The best way is cold turkey. You stay with me until you’ve had time to think it over, long and hard.”
“What if I think it over and still want to go back to him?”
I meet her eyes for a long moment. “If I think you’re thinking clearly enough to make that decision, then it’s yours to make.” Liar fucking liar. I knew from the moment I took her I was never going to rest if I thought that slime bag could put his hands on her again. He’s never going to hurt her. He’s never going to touch her again so long as I breathe.
“Fine. I get the bed though,” she says.
I grin. “You’re welcome to join me, but I’m not giving up my bed.”
She plants her hands on her hips, trying to start a staring match and losing. “Can I at least take a shower by myself?”
“You look clean to me,” I say, running a finger down her arm and making a show of inspecting my fingertip. “See? No dirt.”
She bites her lip, watching me with an expression I might call lustful, but I doubt Camille is thinking about me like that. I’ve not really made a great first impression and she’s had a rough day.
“I feel gross,” she says.
“There are some towels in the bathroom. Feel free to raid my closet for something to wear. We can run out tomorrow and get you some clothes to last while you’re here.”
“How many days worth of clothes will that be?” she asks carefully.
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s call it a couple months.”
She scowls, but I can see her trying to hide a smirk, and the innocent moment makes my cock stir. What kind of ideas are you letting in your head, Dean? I swore off relationships after my sister died and I took Jen in as my own daughter. I don’t think I can live with myself if I fold just because this innocently sexy woman is sharing my bedroom. Then again, I never swore off sex. That body of hers is begging to be used. To be worshiped. If I have to live the rest of my life without ever having tasted her, I’ll never forgive myself.
Problem is I don’t think the feeling is mutual. Sure, I’ve caught her eyes wandering, and there have been little moments, but I’m guessing nothing I could do will get me out of the hole I dug by kidnapping her. And I don’t really blame her for that.
I take a seat on the sofa directly across from the bathroom, not willing to leave her completely alone yet. She steps into my bathroom and closes the door. It’s only after I hear the shower start that I remember I still need to get the door fixed because it hasn’t been latching properly. I briefly consider doing the decent thing and heading downstairs to give her privacy, but the temptation is too great.
It’s not like I’m opening the door myself, and if it does open on its own, how am I supposed to avoid catching an accidental glimpse of her?
Sure enough, after only a minute or two, the door snicks open slightly, just enough for me to see the floor to ceiling glass encasing the shower. My eyes start at her feet, wandering up her glistening body, to the unbelievably perfect half-circle of her ass and the arch of her lower back. The crack in the door isn’t wide enough for me to see her tits though, so I lean to the side a little, then a little more. I can see the first sign of the crease below her tits when I lose my balance on the couch and tumble to the ground with a loud thump and a curse.
The water shuts off, and before I’ve managed to take up a less incriminating position, Camille is standing at the door in a towel, hair wet and pushed back away from her face. She crosses her arms.
“Really?” she asks.
“I should’ve mentioned the door is broken,” I say.
“And I should slap you,” she says, stepping closer.
But it’s a mistake. I can smell the scent of her skin and I can see the way her pulse pounds in her neck. I can imagine how incredible that soft, milky skin would feel against my hands. How her mouth would taste…
“Go ahead,” I say breathily.
There’s a sharp crack. My cheek stings and I realize she actually did it. I chuckle, bringing a hand up to touch my cheek. “You actually did it,” I say, still slightly amazed.
“I should do it again,” she says. Her cheeks are flushing red, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was more from arousal than embarrassment.
“Go ahead, then.”
She moves to slap me again, but this time I press forward, catching her wrists and pinning her to the wall. Our faces are inches apart, and my hard cock presses into her belly. Knowing there’s nothing but the towel keeping me from her body has me on the edge. It’s been too long. Too fucking long.
I kiss her, not stopping to think about why any of this is a terrible idea or any of the dozen reasons I shouldn’t touch her. I only think of the need that burns in my chest, the devastating hunger I’ve felt since the moment I saw her, and most of all, I think of how badly I want to have her in my arms where I know she’ll be safe.
She’s stiff at first, but she starts to kiss me back, tentatively at first and then with a hunger that matches my own. Her hands pull at my shirt, tugging it from my pants and fumbling with my buttons even as her towel slides off and falls at her feet.
I take greedy handfuls of her, filling my palms with her tits and running my thumb across her erect nipples, drawing sighs of pleasure from her mouth.
She tastes so good as her tongue swirls with mine. I pull back, breathing heavy, thinking of the way she slapped me and how the spark of anger quickly melted into lust. “You like it rough, don’t you, sweetheart?” I ask.
Her body goes rigid against me, as if I flipped a switch. She tilts her head down and away from me, kneeling and grabbing for her towel, suddenly self-conscious. “I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s not right,” she says. “Sean will know. He’ll sense it.”
I watch her back away from me. I see the fear in her eyes. She really believes it. “I need to put some clothes on,” she says quickly, rushing into the bathroom and leaving me standing there like the idiot I am.
You like it rough? Fuck. How stupid can I be. I just kidnapped her because her boyfriend was threatening to beat her, and I’m dumb enough to ask her if she likes it rough. I shake my head, deciding I’ve earned my spot on the couch for the foreseeable future. I don’t even take off my shoes before I plop down and thread my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.
“Let’s not talk about it,” she says.
“Fair enough,” I concede.
“That can’t happen again. It just can’t,” she says.
I nod my head, but I know there’s no way I can stop now. I’ve had a taste of her. I’ve felt her touch, and I want more of it. I need more of it. I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just settle in for a restless night of sleep.
4
Camille
By morning, I’ve thought of escaping at least a dozen times. I also probably got a combined total of thirty minutes of rest. Every time I started to drift away, dreams of the way Dean’s hands felt on me startled me awake. I can’t believe I kissed him. I mean, I can believe it on some level. After all, he did rescue me in a way, even if I didn’t ask to be rescued. There’s still a charm to him that I find alluring. A man so confident that he would literally stop at nothing to do what he thinks to be right is admirable, not to mention sexy, but the thought of Sean finding out is absolutely terrifying. I’m only realizing after being away from him that his hold over me is deeper than I ever imagined.
It’s not the kind of connection that exists between happy couples. The grip he has on me is a dark, shameful thing, and it’s buried so far down inside me that I don’t even know how to begin doing anything about it. Behind every thought, action, and word is the paralyzing certainty that he will find out. He’ll learn everything I say or do to defy him and he’ll take it all out on me blow by blow.
Bad for the Billionaires: A Bad Boy Billionaire Bundle Page 65
