The One Who Got Away (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Ava Claire

  That’s what he did to me: he made me forget that I was angry, furious, and my body betrayed me, craving the last thing I should crave. Things like his lips on my skin, his breath in my ear as he told me to bend over and spread my legs.

  That throb deep inside stopped ticking when that lazy, confident smile of his deepened. He thought he had me in the bag.

  He was in for a fucking surprise.

  “Cat,” he said smoothly, holding out his hand. Static electricity rippled through me when our fingers touched. And that was just the beginning because he pulled me close, tipping my chin up so I had to look into his eyes, shining like a light at the end of the tunnel. Looking at me the way a woman wants to be looked at by a man. Like he’d go to war for me. Like he’d slay dragons. Like he’d never love again because I was the beginning and the end.

  I turned my head right before our lips met and his lips grazed a spot just beside my mouth. Close enough that I could still taste him.

  I kept my voice steady as I stepped back and slipped my palms down my hips. That was my tell, a nervous tic that I hoped the dark ambiance hid. “Hello, Lincoln.”

  If he felt the sting of my diss, there was no sign of it on his face. He just held out my chair like a proper gentleman. I followed in kind, holding my breath as he pushed me closer to the table like I weighed nothing at all, a shiver dancing down my spine. I could barely breathe, anger dueling with lust and my own secret desire to believe in all the sappy Disney stuff I pretended annoyed me. When a second person appeared, a woman dressed in a suit and a grin that said she still believed in fairy tales, I sighed to myself...with relief.

  “Welcome, Miss Wilkes!” she said brightly. The candlelight flickered over her excited, hopeful features. “What can I get you to drink?”

  I glanced at Lincoln across the table from me. His expression was solemn. Whatever words he’d left out of all those letters and emails, words that had built up over the past five years, were about to be laid bare.

  “Red wine,” I told her with a tight, forced grin. “The whole bottle.”

  Chapter Seven

  We hadn’t even put in our orders and I’d already given up the charade. I’d convinced myself that he was the enemy, he was the one that was being childish, thinking a measly apology could change the past. But I was the one with my arms crossed against my chest like a petulant child who refused to eat her veggies.

  Our waitress, still sweet-as-pie and shocked by the fact that I wasn’t delighting in this romantic dinner, gave it one last shot. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?”

  I felt Lincoln’s eyes burning like coals, but I shook my head and kept my voice polite. It wasn’t her fault that she was waitressing for a party of one. “I’m fine with the wine, thanks.” As soon as I said the word ‘wine,’ that tickly warmth that foreshadowed tipsiness hit me. “Actually, a glass of water would be great.”

  Her unsure gaze darted to Lincoln, like he could salvage the dinner or say something to make everything magically okay.

  Lincoln collected my menu and slipped it over his own. After making us watch him skim the menu with a single finger, he finally spoke.

  “I’ll take the soup to start and she’ll have the macaroni and cheese.”

  I kept my mouth closed, but my nostrils and glare made the waitress linger.

  “Our macaroni is really yummy!” she piped reassuringly, adding a smile at the end.

  “She’ll love it.” Lincoln’s tone closed the subject and the waitress fled, leaving us to deal with the building confrontation that had begun when I’d passed on his kiss from earlier.

  Who are you kidding? This confrontation has been building since the day you didn’t say I do.

  I couldn’t stand looking at him, with those soulful eyes that swirled with everything from lust to regret, thick lips that promised to kiss away every sorrow...and refresh my memory. Those lips used to start fires, and the only remedy, the only way I made it out alive, was to just succumb.

  The other ‘s’ word flared in my mind.

  Submit.

  We were barely adults when we discovered that neither of us were fans of the flowery, gentle pace of making love. I liked it rough and he liked to be in charge. I think a part of me had leapt at the chance to do something so taboo, so forbidden that I’d give everything, including control, over to him. That I’d get pleasure whenever he held me down and bent me over and tied me up. My vulnerability, that gift, was something I’d never given to anyone else.

  A man like Lincoln could snap his fingers and women would line up to be his. To be dominated. I couldn’t stand the thought of him having another woman in that way.

  After I made sure our waitress was well out of earshot, tackling our order, I growled, “Clearly I’ve been unclear about the way things are now.”

  That made Lincoln stroke his chin, his eyes flashing like a bolt of lightning. “Is that so?”

  “I agreed to dinner. Not a makeover. Not to have you order said dinner for me like I’m not capable of making my own choices-”

  “Your attitude has been crystal clear, Catherine.”

  I bristled at the scold in his voice, precipitated by him snatching up his glass of bourbon and water and taking an angry swig.

  “I will carry the burden of what I did. How I hurt you. The fact that you showed up here tonight is more than I deserve.”

  Damn right. I took a righteous slurp of my wine. Even still, his words seemed to skate around the point, somehow missing the gravity of what he’d done. I settled on the fact that at least he was admitting that me showing up was more than he deserved.

  I lowered my glass back to the table and squared off with him. “You know it’s going to take a lot more than flashing money at me to make this right.” He didn’t look fazed in the least, so I added. “Don’t you?”

  He fisted his glass but didn’t raise it back to his lips. “And I think you know that this isn’t about me trying to make anything ‘right.’” He spit the word out like it was a bad piece of food, but there was no napkin to hide it away. It was right there, on the table, in all of its uncomfortable glory.

  I narrowed my eyes, ready to batten down the hatches and go to war, but he just held out both of his hands, palms up like he had nothing to hide. Nothing to offer but the truth.

  “I was a fucking idiot,” he confessed. “Only a year out of Rhoades, high off of adulthood and the golden parachute that’s the package deal of being a Carraway...” Pain washed over his strong features, and I got to see a glimpse of the Lincoln that no one else got to see. “I was in love with you, but I was terrified of what that meant. ‘Til death do us part’ seems like a long time when you’re a kid-”

  “You were not a kid,” I cut in adamantly. I’d tried to use that excuse myself. Chalking it up to youthful indiscretion. But he didn’t get to blame what he did on being young and prone to doucheyness. That was just an excuse. “You were nineteen years old. People vote at eighteen, die for our country-”

  “For fuck’s sake, Cat!” This was no flash of anger, no undercurrent of frustration. His voice boomed like a cannonball, slashing through my tirade. “I am not trying to make excuses here! I’m aware that I was legally an adult. And that there are people who fight and die for our country, support entire families, and sacrifice instead of running when shit hits the fan-”

  “But that’s just the thing,” I cut back in, gripping the table. “I didn’t know shit hit the fan. We made love the night before. You sent me a text that morning telling me you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me, then the next thing I hear from you is all of these ramblings about us being too young and you not being ready.” The tears poured into my voice, pooled in my eyes. “So that makes me wonder if it was all a lie. It had to have been a lie, right? Because you were carrying all these doubts, all this angst about marrying me, and I was sitting there thinking about honeymoons and white picket fences and babies.”

  Admitting that, that I was ready to sett
le down, be half of a whole, was like I’d stripped the fancy dress right off my body, climbed on top of the table, and was just standing there with every vulnerability, every flaw, every stupid dream on display.

  I shivered and tore my eyes from his because he didn’t get to make those puppy dog eyes at me. I didn’t care if it was hard to hear. He was probably used to people bowing to his whims, blowing smoke up his ass, tiptoeing around the truth so they didn’t wake the beast. But nothing was more terrifying than realizing that your partner wasn’t your partner at all. That you’d been alone all along.

  My tears splashed onto the tablecloth, disappearing as soon as they crashed into the linen. I wished the pain could disappear so easily.

  “It’s not the fear that hurts, Linc.” His nickname rolled right off my tongue, but that just deepened the ache. “It’s that you didn’t trust me enough to talk to me. We could have had a long engagement. Hell, we could have called off the wedding before everyone was in their Sunday best, ready to celebrate us. We could have done what was right for us. Instead, you chose to do what was right for you.”

  There.

  I said it.

  The thing I’d carried with me for years. That he was a selfish bastard. That he left me alone. That he embarrassed me in front of our family and friends and even people I didn’t care about but had to invite to be polite. He chose to run. And I was supposed to trust that now, he had his shit together? Now, he wouldn’t get out of dodge when things got tough?

  As bad ass as my words were, I still didn’t pry my eyeballs from the tablecloth, even after I heard his chair slide backward across the hardwood floor. I counted every step that carried him from his side to mine. Felt him standing beside me, the pull of him painfully hard to deny. His hand drifted in view, palm up, seemingly empty, but I saw the olive branch there. I thought I’d surrendered by coming here, but he was the one surrendering. Giving me a chance to say that it was too late, the damage was done—or we could take the tiniest step toward something different. Something new.

  And then his voice reached through the darkness and drew my gaze up to meet his.

  “Dance with me.”

  The words fell from my mouth a few moments ago, but I was utterly speechless now. A part of me was flabbergasted. I mean, I tell him that he abandoned me, abandoned us, and his answer is for us to dance? Dance and sing and delight as the Titanic sinks to the bottom of the ocean? Another part of me wanted nothing more than to take his hand and be swept away in this moment. Because outside of this room the real world spun on, but here? Here, it was just me and him and the chemistry that burned as brightly as the candles that roared around us.

  His hand was still there, eyes still intent, question still hanging in the silence. Well, not complete silence since the music was still floating from somewhere. Not our kind of music; too classical, too romantic. And now we were about to, what? Waltz?

  I glanced down at myself, wrapped in some couture gown, then back at his sleek black suit. Well, we were dressed for the occasion.

  Any moment the waitress would be back and I’d have an excuse to say no. A plate filled with macaroni had my name on it. And I’d devour it and put off the inevitable, when I’d have to answer his question.

  I know the past happened and I hurt you and I’m sorry...but what comes next?

  Of course the waitress was nowhere to be found. I imagined that she was somewhere in the shadows, watching us, letting our appetizers die at the pass because there was a moment about to unfold, if I’d only take Lincoln’s hand.

  Yes or no.

  Jump or stop pretending.

  I could let the moment pass. Go back upstairs, wash my face, put my slacks and blouse back on, and hold onto the bitterness and anger until it ate me alive. Pretend that I didn’t want to take his hand and dance until my feet hurt. Spin around and around until I was back at prom in my anti-prom dress, him in his suit, rocking out like we were the only people on the dance floor.

  “I hate you,” I muttered, dropping my hand in his and letting him drag me to my feet.

  His lips curled mischievously. “I know.”

  There was no way he could see any better than I could, but he moved like some nocturnal thing, leading me toward a place where we could dance and not slam into tables and chairs. I was awash with sensations, even in the midst of being robbed of sight. I could feel his hand pulsing around mine. His cologne gently drifted around him like the music that whined and moaned around us. The desire that started in my belly, that pit of nerves and need—it wanted to fast forward through the dance and get to the part where his mouth was all over my body.

  I sucked in a breath as we came to a hard stop. He tugged my hand and my body slammed into his. My eyes flew up to meet his gray ones, and I felt a part of him that wanted to fast forward, too. His cock, erect and as mouthwateringly thick as I remembered, was pressed against my abdomen. He always took the lead, but I couldn’t follow. I just stood, eyes locked on his, heart beating out of my chest, and I swayed.

  I didn’t let my mind take me to a place of anger. That we were supposed to have a dance just like this, as husband and wife, would have tainted this. Where excitement robbed me of the ability to speak and I could look into those electric gray eyes and see that he was struggling to behave and keep it PG-13, because we were surrounded by onlookers who wouldn’t approve if he grabbed my ass. Or gripped my breasts and told me all the ways he wanted to fuck me.

  There were no such public concerns here and his hands glided down the side of my body, his touch soft and fierce at the same time as he rounded my hips and rested on my ass, pulling my body closer still. Drawing me closer, to the point where I could make out every swollen inch of him. Where I could barely sway because I was trembling, lust whipping between my thighs. My pussy had already given up the ghost. The flickers of lust that were inevitable when we were in the same general vicinity were now flames and that ache down there, the ache only he could satiate, was going to do me in. I wasn’t liable for my actions because I was reaching around and grabbing his ass too, grinding against him. This dance was too indecent for the presence of Bach or Mozart or whatever high-class composer had crafted the song that hummed around us.

  There was another sound that joined the violins and percussion. Deeper and coming from him. I paused mid dry hump and cocked my head at him. His grin deepened as he ducked his head and his lips grazed my ear.

  He was singing “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The song that had been playing the first time we kissed in his truck in the student lot back in Rhoades. But instead of guitar and Cobain’s voice filling me with angst and the thrill of knowing he was about to kiss me, Lincoln’s voice was deep and sultry, turning the song into something overtly sexual as his lips wrapped around every word.

  Some form of shock and awe captured me and my fingers flew to his mouth at the bridge. I traced the curve of his lips and the music vibrated through my fingertips. Lincoln Carraway didn’t sing for anyone but me. No one except me knew that he wanted to do chorus and musicals in high school. His father put an end to that as soon as the interest reared its head. Before, it was like pulling teeth to get him to do more than whisper a note or two and here he was, breathing the lyrics into me.

  I didn’t know if it was Nirvana, three glasses of wine, or just being high off his body being so deliciously close to mine, but I raced my fingers through his hair and I found bliss. Our lips met and the song was forgotten. This room was forgotten. The past was forgotten. There was nothing and no one but him and me. I devoured him with a hunger that had me reeling, his moans echoing in me, through me. Our teeth clashed, but it just intensified my hunger. My need to taste him. To kiss him. I didn’t know what came next and I didn’t give a damn.

  I didn’t catch the moment his hands migrated from my behind to my cheeks, but when I opened my eyes, he was holding my face in his hands like someone that thought all hope was lost and somewhere, somehow, a light flickered at the end of the tunnel.

 
His eyes darted behind me.

  The waitress!

  I spun around, clasping my arms across my body like she’d walked in on us mid sex, tangled up in each other. She looked as embarrassed as I felt and started stammering apologies.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt, but your first course...” She trailed off, dropping her chin to her chest like we were the queen and king and the next thing out of my mouth would be ‘Off with her head!’

  It was enough to sober me up, and I dashed over to the table like I was starving. “No problem at all.” I knew I was dialing it up to the level of being pretty obvious, but I ignored Lincoln’s gaze, coupled with hers. I dropped into my seat with a toothy grin and shimmied closer, tearing up the plate with my eyes and inhaling deep. Cheese and garlic took the place of Lincoln’s cologne. When he joined me, not vocalizing how delicious his soup was, I gave the waitress a thumbs up before I shook my utensils loose and snapped my napkin like a bullfighter. “Yum!”

  She flitted away like a butterfly and left us to our meal. Well, me stuffing macaroni and cheese in my mouth and Lincoln stirring his soup.

  I took a break, chewing my food slowly and swallowing. His eyes on me should have been unnerving since the gray was a dusky hue that told me he was still on the dance floor. It made my temperature rise, my skin rippling with goose bumps as he watched every movement. He was studying me.

  “After giving me shit, you’re not going to eat?” I used my fork to gesture around us. “All these bells and whistles were your idea-”

  “Can I make a confession?”