Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(37)

“You told me not to,” I said. I would do anything he asked of me, frankly, as long as he didn't ask me about the scars beneath my tattoos. I was happy to go wherever he wanted. I was happy to run away from the feelings he had stirred in me. Very mature, I know, but sometimes you have to run away so you can live to run away another day.

“I did,” he mused as the car pulled away from the curb and jetted into the city streets. “I just didn't quite expect you to obey.”

I scowled at him. “I'm not obeying, I'm taking your suggestion. Although I don't know what I'm going to wear in Dubrovnik.”

“You will wear what I dress you in,” he replied. “I require it for my art.”

I suspected that he actually did not require it for his art, but I wasn't really going to argue with him. I didn't want to ruin the illusion that we were lovers jetting off to a romantic getaway, leaving behind the hustle and bustle of the city to lose ourselves in each other's arms.

Then Malcolm did his part to continue the illusion by reaching over, unbuckling my seatbelt, and pulling me into his lap. He spread my thighs over his hips and buried his hands in my hair, drawing my lips down to his.

I sighed, letting the warmth of our attraction chase away the cold that had settled in my gut. His lips and hands traveled over my body, here and there until I was gasping and sighing at his touch, my pussy rubbing against the bulge of his cock in his jeans. I still hadn't given him an orgasm, except for one messy hand job beneath a restaurant table, and I wanted to give something back to him. The car seemed like as good a place as any, squeezing it in before we clambered onto a plane. I didn't know if we were taking a commercial flight or a private flight. I didn't know anything.

I didn't want to know anything. I wanted to forget. I wanted to lose myself in the moment with him. Glancing over my shoulder, I checked to make sure the privacy window was up between the back seat and the driver's seat. It was. I slid out of Malcolm's lap and wedged myself into the space between the driver's seat and his hips. He gazed down at me, his dark eyes growing wider and darker with desire.

I smoothed my hands over his thighs. I wanted him naked. I wanted to see him. Reaching out, I began to work the button of his pants, my mouth watering in anticipation.

His hands closed around my wrists.

“Stop,” he said.

Seriously? He was asking me to stop? I almost flashed him a sly glance and kept going, but remembering how he stopped immediately for me gave me pause. I raised my eyes to his, trying to gauge how serious he was.

A muscle leaped in his jaw as he stared down at me, but his hands were firm on my wrists. Warm and large. I wanted to curl up in the palm of his hand and let him warm me through and through.

“Why?” I asked. “Don't you want me to?”

He used my wrists to draw me up and set me on the seat beside him. “I don't know,” he said after a moment.

Stung, I scooted away from him, the leather of the back seat making it easy. I wished it weren't so easy. Again the distance, again the strangeness from him. Malcolm Ward intrigued and frustrated me. I wanted nothing more than to peel away his layers and figure out what made him tick, but for every layer removed, it seemed he scraped away ten of my own. I was too pliable towards him, all because I wanted him to get in my pants. And yet I hadn't even achieved that yet. And maybe I never would because he didn't even know if he wanted to do so.

His tongue on my clit, tenderly probing my quivering inner core, and the huge, aching cock that resulted from those activities weren't enough to tell him he wanted to fuck me. What was?

Perhaps I could be forgiven for what I said next. Perhaps not. But I tell you this: it came from a very honest place.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I demanded. “Why can't I suck your cock? I suck great cock. What the hell?”

His brows rose at my crude words. I didn't care. I wanted to shock him. “Sadie...” he said. I saw him searching for the right words, and I crossed my arms, waiting. I suddenly didn't want it to be easy for him. I'd been easy for him for the past two days. I wanted him to be easy for me for a change. Or at the very least throw a wrench in his works.

Stop playing with me, I wanted to say. Stop running hot and cold, you enormous fuckstick tease.

Even I knew that saying something like that was probably beyond the pale, so I bit my lips together and waited for him to tell me why he didn't want to fuck me.

“I don't know,” he said again. He drew back, his shoulders straightening, his face smoothing. He seemed puzzled, and then a strange look passed over his face. It was almost... sad. “You do things to me, Sadie,” he said at last. “I don't know if I'm comfortable with them.”