Black Tie Billionaire. Naima Simone

“Talking.”

      “I don’t know if I should be more offended that you’re belittling me or yourself with that statement.” A whisper of sound and then fingers—questing, gentle, but so damn sure—stroked across her jaw, her temple, the strangely callused tips abrading her skin. What did a man like him do to earn that hardened skin that spoke of hard labor, not crunching numbers? “Yes, I do. It annoys me more that you would demean yourself. A woman like you,” he murmured. “Beautiful. Intelligent. Bold. Confident. What man wouldn’t want to spend time with you? Only one too blind or stupid to see who stands right before his eyes. Read any financial blog or journal, Camille. I’m not a stupid man.”

      She snorted, trying to mask the flame licking at her from the inside out. Cover the yearning his words caused deep within her. “How did you manage to compliment yourself and reprimand me at the same time?”

      But he ignored her attempt to inject levity into the thick, pulsing atmosphere. No, instead, he swept another caress over her skin. This time, brushing a barely there touch to the curve of her bottom lip. She trembled. And God, he had to sense it, to feel it. Because he repeated it.

      “I don’t date,” he informed her, and the frankness of the statement caught her off guard. Almost made her forget the long fingers still cradling her jaw.

      Almost.

      “Excuse me?” she breathed.

      “I don’t date,” he repeated. “I know something, too, Camille. Relationships, commitments—they’re lies we tell ourselves so we can justify using each other. Sex. Need. Passion—they’re honest. The body can’t lie. Lust is the great equalizer regardless of social status, race or tax bracket. So no, I rescind my earlier statement. If not for this blackout, it’s very possible we wouldn’t have passed these last couple of hours talking. But I don’t care if we were in a ballroom or a boardroom, I would’ve noticed you. I would’ve wanted you. I would’ve done everything in my power to convince you to trust me with your body, your pleasure.”

      Oh damn.

      She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Suspended by the hunger swamping her.

      “Your turn, moonbeam,” he said, his hand falling away from her face. And she immediately missed his touch, that firm grasp. Because he couldn’t see her, she lifted her fingers to the skin that continued to tingle. “Tell me again what you know.”

      Moonbeam. The endearment reminded her of their conversation in the ballroom. Her brain argued that the word had nothing to do with love or sweetness and everything to do with hunger and darkness, and yet she jolted at the coiling in her lower belly.

      “I know you’re telling me you haven’t changed your mind about wanting to spend the night with me. Inside me,” she added, on a soft, almost hushed rush of breath.

      “And have you changed yours?”

      From the moment you called me your moon.

      The truth reverberated against her skull, but she clenched her jaw, preventing it from escaping. Her defenses had started crumbling long before he’d come looking for her.

      Did this make her a cliché? He wasn’t the first man to profess he wanted her, but he was the first she longed to touch with a need that unnerved her. She’d never yearned for a man’s hands on her body as much as she longed for Gideon Knight’s big, elegant, long-fingered ones stroking over her breasts. Or gripping her hips, holding her steady for a deep, hot possession that had her sex spasming in anticipation...in preparation.

      She exhaled a breath. Right, he still waited for her answer, and she suspected he wouldn’t make a move, wouldn’t feather another of those caresses over her until she gave it to him.

      “Yes,” she confessed, her heart thudding heavily against her rib cage.

      “About what, Camille?” he pressed, relentless. “What have you decided? What do you want?”

      He wasn’t granting her a reprieve; he was making her say it. Making her lay herself bare.

      Her sense of self-preservation launched a last-ditch effort to save her from who she’d become in the dark. Who she’d become in that ballroom. But desire crushed it, and she willingly surrendered to the irresistible lure of freedom...of him.

      “You,” she whispered. “I’ve decided on you.”

      She slid across the small space separating them and located his face. A soft groan rolled up her throat, and she didn’t even try and trap it. Not when she curved her hand around the strong jut of his jaw, the faintest bristles of what would become a five o’clock shadow abrading her palm. Unable to stop, she stroked the pad of her thumb over the mouth she had been craving since she first noticed him.

      Strong teeth sank into the flesh of her thumb, not hurting her but exerting enough pressure that she gasped. Then whimpered.

      How had she gone twenty-five years without being aware that spot connected to her sex? That it would make her thighs clench on an ache so sweet, it maddened her?

      Another gasp broke free of her, this one of surprise, as his fingers closed around her arms and abruptly dragged her to her feet. She swayed, but he didn’t release her until she steadied. Then the sudden flare of light from his cell phone startled her again. After the dark, the pale glow seemed almost too bright. She blinked, glancing from the screen to the shadows it cast over Gideon’s face.

      “Why...” She waved toward the phone. “What about saving the battery?”

      He shook his head, his features sharper, appearing to be hewn from flint. Except for those glittering, almost fevered eyes. Oh wow... Such intensity and...and greed there. It stirred her own hunger, stoking the fire inside her until she burned with it.

      “I don’t give a damn. I need to see you,” he growled, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it to the floor. Still controlled, but the movement carried an edge. And it thrilled her. “Take off your shirt, Camille. Show me what you’ve decided I can have.”

      With trembling fingers, she reached for the buttons of her white shirt. It required several attempts, but she managed to open it, and with his black gaze fixed on her, slipped it off. Warm air kissed her bared shoulders, the tops of her breasts and stomach.

      A part of her argued that she should feel at least a modicum of modesty, and maybe Shay would. But not Camille.

      As crazy as it seemed, here, with Gideon, she had become a different person. The flip side of the same coin. Normally reserved, bound by expectations and family. But now... uninhibited, free to indulge in her own selfish desires.

      “Gorgeous,” he rasped. “So fucking gorgeous. Come here.” He beckoned.

      His almost growled compliment stole more of her breath.

      “Your turn,” she ordered, remaining in place, although her fingers already prickled to stroke the skin and muscle hidden beneath the thin veneer of civility presented by his tuxedo. “Show me what you promised me I can take.”

      His fingers tightened around the edges of his shirt, and for a moment, she feared—hoped—he would just rip it off. But once more, that control reemerged, and he removed his cuff links, tossing them carelessly on top of his jacket. Then, button by button, he revealed himself to her.

      She stared at the male animal before her. Miles and miles of smooth flesh stretched taut over tight muscle and tendon. Wide shoulders, a deep chest. Narrowed waist. A corrugated ladder of abs. A thin, silky line of hair started just above a shadowed navel and traveled below, disappearing into the waistband of his suit pants. And darker swirls and shapes she couldn’t make out spread over the left side of his ribs, emphasizing the hint of wildness, of fierceness he couldn’t quite conceal.

      Perfection.

      He was utter perfection.

      This time, he didn’t need to demand she come to him. Shay covered the distance on her own, arms already extended. With a hum