Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
“And have you figured it out?”
I slide the omelet onto a plate and turn to face him. “Not entirely.”
Ronan moves closer, reaching past me to open a drawer. His arm brushes mine, sending electricity skating across my skin. He’s close enough that I can smell him—clean soap, a hint of mint, and something darker, richer. Heat radiates from his body, and I instinctively rub my thighs together, seeking friction, desperate for him to relieve the terrible, empty ache within me.
God, how did I end up like this? It’s like I’m one accidental touch away from begging him to take me.
“Silverware,” he explains, holding up a fork. Our fingers brush as he hands it to me, and I swear I feel the contact all the way to my toes.
“Thanks.” My voice sounds breathless even to my own ears. “Did I wake you?”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Working?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“You.”
The single word sends a rush of heat through me. He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if admitting he was lying awake thinking about a woman he just met is the most natural thing in the world.
I take a bite of my omelet to hide my reaction, but it's a mistake. Now I have to swallow past the tightness in my throat. Ronan watches me eat with unnerving intensity.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod. “Would you like some?”
“I’ll make my own.” He moves to the refrigerator, and I can’t help but watch the play of muscles across his back as he reaches for eggs and vegetables.
Looking this hot should be a crime. Being this hot and rich, though? The world really isn’t fair.
The kitchen isn’t small by any means, but with Ronan in it, the space feels intimate, almost confined. We move around each other in a strange dance, his body sometimes coming close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but never quite touching.
I try to ignore the disappointment.
“You cook,” I say as he expertly cracks eggs into a bowl.
“You sound surprised. It’s not like I’m making filet mignon.”
“Most billionaires don’t make their own omelets at” —I glance at the clock on the microwave— “two in the morning.”
“Most billionaires didn’t grow up like I did, and like I said, it’s just an omelet.”
There’s a story there, but he doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. Instead, I watch his hands as he works—strong, capable hands. An unbidden image slips into my mind. An image of those same hands exploring every inch of my body, running along my thighs, dipping inside—
Stop it, Rayne. Stop! Remember why you're here in the first place.
“What’s that one mean?” I ask, nodding toward a tattoo on his shoulder blade—an intricate geometric design surrounding what looks like a date in Roman numerals.
He glances back at me. “The day I bought my first company.”
“And that one?” I point to a stylized phoenix on his bicep.
A smile plays at his lips. “Are you cataloging my tattoos, Rayne?”
My name from his mouth sends a shiver down my spine. It feels so much like a caress. “Just curious.”
“Curious about my body?”
“About your tattoos,” I say a little too defensively, though we both know it’s not entirely true.
Seems to me, lying to Ronan is basically pointless.
His omelet sizzles in the pan, filling the silence between us. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, softer. “The phoenix was my first. Got it when I was eighteen. It means what you'd expect—rising from ashes. A bit of a cliche, I know, but I was angry and determined and desperate to prove myself.”
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us—a current of understanding, of recognition. We’re both more than we appear to be.
I would never have thought I’d find a billionaire relatable, but here we are.
I finish my omelet and take my plate to the sink. When I turn, Ronan is right there, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. We stand like that for a heartbeat, two, three. I can count his eyelashes. See the faint scar above his left eyebrow. Feel his breath, warm against my forehead.
“Excuse me,” I finally whisper, my voice embarrassingly husky.
He doesn’t move immediately. “You unmoor me, Rayne, because you’re so far from what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone already trying to get into my bed by now.”
I swallow hard. “Maybe I have more self-respect than that.” Or control because God knows that’s exactly where I want to be.
“Or maybe,” he says, finally stepping aside, “you’re just better at the game than most.”
“This isn’t a game to me.” The words come out sharper than I intended. I think of my mom, lying in bed, waiting for all the treatments we can’t yet afford.
He studies me, his dark eyes unreadable. “Good. Because it isn’t to me, either.”
I slip past him, acutely aware of every inch of my body as it passes near his. My skin tingles with awareness. With want. The intensity of my reaction to him is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want Ronan, and it terrifies me.