“Maybe so, but Cason won’t allow them.” His head dips, and while his breath is soft against my face, it’s like a tangible caress to my needy cleft. “You know I’m right. I’m all you got, Peyton, and we’re doing this.”
Anger and desire war with each other as I stare up at the man I hate. My traitorous body remains hot and achy from the way his hand is still holding mine, but I know there’s one thing I’ll never have to worry about with Roman Bianchi.
Him falling for me.
“Fine then.” I snatch my purse from the hallway table. “Let’s go to dinner and work out the kinks.”
“Kinks?”
His brow arches and I give a fast shake of my head. “Details. I meant to say details.”
Fuck my life.
CHAPTER TWO
Roman
“WE COULD HAVE taken Cason’s plane,” Peyton says, her lips turned down at the corners, a pouty little frown that shouldn’t arouse me, yet somehow does. Christ, how she makes that petulant look sexy is beyond me, and don’t even get me started on her yoga pants and T-shirt with Save the Bees emblazoned across the front. She always was an activist for any kind of wildlife at risk. “It was all fueled up, ready and waiting for us this morning.”
“Now why would I tie up Cason’s plane when I have a perfectly good plane of my own?” I ask as she drops into the light tan leather bucket seat beside me and crosses her arms in a defensive move. She’s either being very protective of herself, or she’s trying to hide the way her lovely, lush nipples are poking against her thin, summery T-shirt, compliments of the cold air flowing in from the overhead vent. Or maybe they’re hard for a different reason. I’m not sure, but either way my tongue would love to spend some serious time on her body, trying to find out.
Don’t go there, Roman.
Jesus, the last thing I should be thinking about is Peyton’s gorgeous curves, or how everything about her kept me wide-awake last night, my cock hard and needy as visions of her in my bed—my mouth and hands on her delicate skin, devouring every delectable inch of her—filled my thoughts.
Simply put, she used to be Cason’s kid sister. Until she wasn’t. Now, well, now she’s all grown up, with big green eyes and that mess of curly red hair that drives me mad. It’s all I can do not to grab a fistful, tug it until her mouth is poised open and kiss the living hell out of her.
Shit.
She goes quiet as we settle in, making a show of dragging a magazine from her big bag and dropping it on her lap as the plane makes its way down the runway. Her silence is a welcome reprieve. But I won’t think, not even for one minute, that she’ll be quiet for the whole flight. Last night over dinner, she raked me over the coals, nonstop. Christ, she grilled me on everything, and by the time I dropped her off at her condo, I sported more char marks than the porterhouse steak I’d ordered.
The hum of the engine at full throttle fills the cabin, and the second the plane levels off I settle back with my tablet, ready to do some reading and a bit of work on the long flight ahead of us. I blink at the stream of letters before me yet can’t quite seem to focus. I shift and lift my head when I can feel Peyton’s laser-sharp glare burning a hole in my forehead. Jesus, if this plane had an emergency eject seat, and she was near the button, I’d be catapulting through space—violently. Not that I blame her for hating me. It’s what I need from her.
“What now?” I ask, and set my tablet on my lap, realizing just how tightly it was clenched in my hand. I stretch out my fingers to circulate my blood and brace myself for impact when Peyton uncurls her fingers from her magazine and sets it aside with a calmness that belies the fire in her eyes.
Never one to disappoint, she glares at me and asks, “Why are you doing this, anyway?” Her gaze narrows, like a bird of prey ready to move in for the kill. A burst of icy air from the overhead vent rustles her long curls and does little to cool the heat building inside me.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, desperate to keep this about business. “Would you like a drink?” I ask, needing one, two or maybe even ten before she begins her interrogation again.
“No, well, yes.” She flips her palm over, a gesture I’ve gotten used to over the years. “But I want answers first.” Her tenaciousness is something I’ve gotten used to as well. I can’t say that I dislike her determination and conviction. She has a resolve few do and won’t stop until she’s satisfied.
Shit, don’t think about all the ways you can satisfy her, Roman.
Dammit, I’m thinking about it.
“We’ve been over this, Peyton. I told you last night, numerous times. I’m helping out a friend. My best friend. End of story. I’m not sure what else you think this is.”
“I know you and Cason go way back, but this...this is going above and beyond friendship, in my book.”
“Not in mine.”
“All right then,” she says, and I prepare for a change in tactics. “But agreeing to this whole charade after...” She arches a brow without elaborating. Not that she needs to. We both know she’s talking about the kiss I never should have initiated—then stalked off like a complete asshole afterward. The heated memory burns brightly in my brain and continues to taunt my dick.
I’ll never forget that warm summer night in the Hamptons during a friend’s wedding. I could have easily taken her upstairs to my hotel room, where we would have done depraved things to each other, things that my best friend never would have forgiven me for. Thank God someone from the wedding party bumped me from behind before we were spotted making out in the corner like a couple hormonal teens, and my one working brain cell kicked some sense back into my balls seconds before I threw her over my shoulder and carried her out of the ballroom—caveman style.
“I’m helping a friend out,” I reiterate for the millionth time.
“I mean, I know you’re getting paid. It just seems a bit much,” she adds, and pulls a tube of lipstick from her purse. She smacks her lips together and my gaze drops. How the hell am I going to make it through this plane ride when she does things like that? Her innocent sexuality is going to be the death of me. “The air is dry up here,” she explains as she removes the cap and rolls out the lipstick.
“Yeah, dry,” I agree. “And it’s not about the money,” I say. The truth is, I’m not getting paid—I’m a goddamn millionaire and don’t need her or her brother’s money—but it’s best I let her believe I’m getting compensated. She can’t wrap her brain around me doing this favor for Cason as it is.
Is this really all about Cason?
Hell yeah, it is. It has to be. I can’t be doing this because I want to spend time with her. I’m not a goddamn masochist.