Billionaire’s Sins by L. Steele

24

"Earbuds firmly stuck in her ears, my mum dances around the lawn, backlit against the sinking sun. Her weights are in her hands, swinging dangerously near to her head every time she raises her arms. She’s supposedly working out, and as she launches into the chorus of Prince's Purple Rain, I can see her face light up."

-From Ava's diary

Ava

Thunder booms outside and I sit up with a gasp. It’s dark in the room and I reach for my lamp and flick it on. The light illuminates the room but doesn’t dispel the unease that gathers in the pit of my belly. I snatch up my phone, check the time. It’s two am, the dead of night. Goosebumps pop on my skin. I rub my hands together, blow on them, then stare at the band-aid Edward had placed on the scraped skin at the base of my palm. I peel off the bandage, find the wound is already half healed. That didn't take long. Some gashes heal quickly. Others—well, others only fester over time.

A shudder runs down my spine.

It’s freezing and not even being under three duvets is keeping me warm. Ugh. The temperature must have plummeted outside, as it sometimes does in London. It was sunny yesterday, the warmest day in March for the last fifty years, or so the media headlines had proclaimed. Which is why, no doubt, the mercury dropped the other way today. I roll up the bandage toss it into the wastebasket near the bedside table. Just then, lightning flashes outside. Rain patters against the window at the same time that the doorbell rings.

Huh? Who can it be? I’m not expecting any of the girls to come by, and anyway, they’d never drop by unannounced. In the middle of the night. I pick up the phone and check my messages. Nope, nothing.

The doorbell rings again, then someone bangs against the door.

I stiffen, clutch my phone in my hand like it’s a weapon. Shit, I don’t have anything to defend myself with. But thieves don’t ring doorbells, do they? Not unless they want to take you by surprise when you opened the door. My pulse rate ratchets up. I slip out of the bed and the cold wraps around me. I shiver, walk to the kitchen, glance around, then grab the first thing I find. A wooden spoon. Shit, that’s not going to help.

The banging on the door resumes again, and I pivot, walk toward it and peer through the keyhole.

Golden eyes glare back at me. I gulp; my fingers tremble. The phone slips from my hand and hits the floor. Shit, shit, shit. I snatch it up, then juggling the wooden spoon and the phone in one hand, I open the door to find Edward framed in the doorway.

"Wha…what are you doing here?" I gulp.

He rakes his gaze down my features, to where I’m holding the phone and wooden spoon, then back to my face.

His hair is mussed, droplets of water dot his face, trail down his beautiful throat, down the demarcation between those sculpted pecks. Goosebumps pop on my skin for a second time in a few minutes, this time for completely different reasons. I rub one bare foot over the other and he jerks his gaze down my chest, to my hips, to my bare legs. Shit. In my hurry to get a weapon, I’d forgotten to wear something warmer, so I’m still clad in my camisole and the knickers that I’d worn to bed.

His nostrils flare. He glances up, meets my gaze. His irises blaze a gorgeous golden. I see myself reflected in them and shiver. Thunder cracks outside again and I jump. The phone slips from my hand. Again. He swoops down, grabs it before it hits the ground, then straightens. "Invite me in," he commands.

"Wh…what?"

"Ask me in, Eve," he snaps. "Now."

I gulp. “W...won’t you come in?” I take a step back, then skitter to the side as he brushes past me. The scent of freshly cut grass mixed with rain envelops me. My nipples harden and my thighs clench. Moisture pools between my legs. Shit, at this rate I am going to dampen my panties and he’s going to know the effect he has on me, considering I have no clothes to hide behind.

The wind picks up outside again, and I close the door. I turn to find him standing in the center of the living room. He seems to have absorbed all the oxygen in the room, for I try to breathe, but my lungs burn. I try to swallow but my throat is too dry. Hell. Why does he have this effect on me? I take a trembling step forward, then another. He must hear the slight noise I make, for he tenses. He drops his backpack to the floor, then shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it aside. His shoulders flex, the defined planes of his back outlined against the shirt that pulls tightly across his torso.

He raises a hand to run his fingers through his hair, and the action outlines his biceps, which bulge and flex. A hot flare of desire pools low in my belly. My thighs spasm, my palms dampen, and I rub them across my thighs. I rake my gaze down that delicious butt of his, those powerful thighs clad in jeans. He's also wearing biker boots. Proper shit-kickers. I’ve never seen him wear those before. For that matter, I've never seen him in jeans either. I lower my gaze, to the backpack at his feet.

"Are you going somewhere?" I frown.

"I came to see you." He pivots to face me and the force of his intense gaze slams into my chest. A shudder grips me. I tighten my grip around the wooden spoon I’m still holding in my hand. His gaze darts to that, then back to me. "Do you want me to use that?"

"What?" I blink at him. "What do you mean?"

Do you," he takes a step forward, "want me," another step and another, "to use that," he stops a few inches in front of me, "on you?"

Heat flushes my skin. He’s not. He can’t be… Is he saying what I think he is?

"You mean…" I gulp, "you want to…"

"Spank you?" He tilts his head. "Do you?"

Yes.

Yes.

"No," I squeak, then clear my throat. "Wh…what are you doing here?"

"That’s not important. What is, is that I am here. I came to see you, Ava." He drags his hand through his hair again and I notice his fingers tremble. Huh? Is he nervous? No, he’s not nervous… This is something else. I peer into his features, notice the skin pulled tightly across his cheek bones. There are fine lines around his eyes, which I swear I haven’t noticed before. He looks on edge, strung tight, like he’s about to do something…or has done something that’s not in the normal scheme of things. Considering the time and his arrival on my doorstep.

"What happened?" I scowl at him. "What have you done, Edward?"

He stares at me, then chuckles. He peels back his lips and laughs, and the sound is harsh and ugly and so pain-filled that I wince.

I take a step forward. "Ed, what’s wrong?"

He firms his lips, looks me up and down, before kicking his bag aside, his movements barely restrained. The backpack hits the wall, the sound a soft thud that reverberates through my blood. My pulse skitters; the blood pounds at my temples.

"Ed?" I tilt my head, "What do you want?"

"You," he bites out the word, "I want you."