The Billionaire's Virgin(25)

A threat of desire wound unexpectedly through him and pulled tight.

He caught his breath. Yeah, that wasn’t happening. Not even he was that much of a prick.

Curling his fingers around the beanie, he put it in the pocket of his suit pants then turned and left the laundry room, making a quick stop at his bedroom to grab the robe he never wore from the walk-in closet, before coming back to the living room.

He almost expected for her not to be there. For her to have vanished, left the building and run out into the snowy night dressed only in a towel. But she was standing in the middle of the room, her shoulders hunched, long dark hair dripping down her back and into that damn towel.

She looked small and bedraggled standing there in his living room, exhaustion stamped all over her sharp, delicate features. Yet again it struck him how fragile she was. How vulnerable. It seemed impossible that this little woman had lived by herself on the streets, without safety or shelter, and yet hadn’t been broken. Hadn’t been murdered or permanently injured. Hadn’t wasted away of some terrible disease or from starvation. Hadn’t frozen to death in the bitterly cold winters.

She’s strong.

Looking at the fragility of her now, it seemed a strange thing to think. But . . . she had to be. That slender, pale body of hers had to be made out of pure steel.

He held out the robe. “I’ll have to go through my closet and see if there’s anything that will fit you, but you can wear this in the meantime.”

Her gaze darted to the robe then came back to him again. She didn’t say anything, only gazed warily at him as she moved closer, snatching the robe from his fingers as if she was afraid he’d take it away at the last moment.

Wordlessly, he turned his back to her again, giving her a few seconds of privacy so she could put on the robe. This time he didn’t look, not even into the windows to catch the reflection of her nakedness, because he was going to be a gentleman this time.

When he turned back, the towel was on the floor and she was wrapped in the plush, charcoal robe, the folds of it basically swamping her. “H-Here,” she said unsteadily and bent to grab the towel. But as she straightened up, she swayed, her face going even whiter than it was already.

Okay, this was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to stand there not helping her, and he didn’t give a shit how uncomfortable that made her.

Before she could topple over in front of him, Xavier stepped forward and slid an arm around her. She stiffened, but he paid that no attention, bending to slide his other arm behind her knees and sweep her up into his arms.

“No,” she said faintly, her body rigid.

“Yes,” he murmured, stooping to grab the towel as well.

She gave a cursory struggle but when he didn’t let her go, she went limp instead, her head relaxing back against his chest, her lashes coming down.

He turned toward a bedroom, carrying her down the hallway. She was so light in his arms, so insubstantial. The scent of the oil he’d put in her bathwater wrapped around him, a spicy, sandalwood smell one of his girlfriends had left there months ago and which he’d never gotten rid of. The bath oil’s perfume mixed with that light musky scent he’d inhaled on the beanie, her own natural smell. It was delicious.

Xavier tried not to let himself get distracted, because he knew himself. Give him a naked woman who smelled delicious and he didn’t hold back. Restraint was not in his nature. Yet, for some reason, with her, he was the very essence of restrained.

He couldn’t work out why. Fragile things tended to get broken when he was around, which was why he made sure he was never around them.

Yet he wasn’t going to examine that right now, not when she was shivering in his arms as if she was cold.

There were other bedrooms in the house, but they hadn’t been prepared for guests and the heating had been turned down in them, so he headed straight back to his own room. It was at least warm and the sheets were fresh.

Not bothering with the lights, he carried her over to his massive, wide bed, sitting down on the edge of it with her in his lap so he could pull back the goose down comforter. She didn’t make a sound, her body lying passive and still against him like a kitten being carried by its mother.

He almost laughed at that thought, because he sure as hell wasn’t her goddamn mother. And if a woman was limp, it was usually because she’d come too many times to move.

But not this woman. Here he was, turning down the bed and laying her on it, drying the tangles of her still dripping hair with the towel then covering her with the comforter and tucking it around her.

She made no sound and didn’t protest, her eyes firmly shut as if she couldn’t deal with anything more. And maybe she couldn’t. He wasn’t given to reflection, not about his own actions or about the actions of others, he simply did what he wanted and took the consequences, good or bad. But, thinking about it, he guessed this was all pretty overwhelming for her.