The Game: A Billionaire Romance Page 7

  Just like my body has turned from one burning with heat to one burdened by worry and fear.

  It isn’t Grant exactly who scared me away. It’s what he whispered in my ear.

  You can’t fight it, Abby.

  It’s scary for one reason only – because it’s true.

  I can’t fight the guilt gnawing at me inside out from rejecting Grant. I can’t fight the joy that bursts in my chest whenever I remember watching Miss Saigon with Grant or dancing in his arms at that party. I can’t fight the blush that coats my cheeks at the slightest recollection of how he made my body feel. And most of all, I can’t fight the desire to feel his body next to mine again – a feeling that washes over me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes at his slightest touch, just like earlier.

  What is all this? Love?

  Whatever it is, it makes me feel helpless and that scares the hell out of me, so much so that it has my body in a state of panic and anxiety, my chest heavy and tears spilling out of the corners of my eyes.

  It scares me. Not only because I’ve never felt like this before, but more so because I never thought I’d feel this way. I promised myself I’d never feel this way.

  I promised myself I’d never end up like my mother.

  Just then, I feel a drop of water on my forehead, followed two seconds later by another on my chin. And another. And another. I get up, running to seek shelter under the nearest, largest tree as rain falls all around me and trickles down the leaves and splatters off the ground to the tune of its own melody.

  A little rain can hardly hurt me now…

  It was raining when my mother died. I don’t remember much of that day – not the words said during the funeral service in the chapel, not the guests clad in black, not the music playing as they laid her down into the earth. I clearly remember, though, that after everyone had left, I knelt in front of her open grave. As I threw in the rose that I had been gripping so tightly, I swore that I would never live like her or die like her.

  For seven years, I watched her go from one man to the next. It was a cycle, really. During the first few days or weeks, sometimes months, she would go around wearing freshly styled or dyed hair, makeup, and sexy clothes, euphoric that she had a man. She was constantly doing anything and everything she could to please him – cooking, dressing up, giving him gifts, massaging his feet, squealing like a pig while she let him fuck her night after night. Anything in the hopes of keeping him from leaving. He left anyway – the second phase – and she would beat her fists against his chest and grab his thigh like a toddler, sobbing uncontrollably. I hated seeing her like that but the third phase was worse – the phase when she wallowed in self-pity, crying her eyes out every day and drowning her sorrows in alcohol every night. Sometimes, it lasted for days. Sometimes, longer than when she was with the last man. After that, she’d come to her senses. It was what I called her Phoenix Phase. I liked being with her during this phase because it was when we spent times as mother and daughter. During those days, I tried to make her feel like she was good enough and that I was enough for her. But it was never enough, and it wasn’t long before the cycle started all over again.

  I swore to my mother and to myself that I would never be a victim to such a vicious cycle. A cycle, as my mother demonstrated, that could only end in ruin and death. I swore that I would never give too much of myself and definitely not give without getting as much in return. I swore that I would always be in control of how I felt.

  Yet, here I am, unable to stand in front of Grant without my knees shaking or my heart racing or my palms prickling with heat, unable to resist his advances, unable to stop thinking about him. And worst of all, unable to stop wanting him even though I know he’s out of my league, even though I know how much he loves women, even though I know he probably just wants to fuck me some more.

  Why does wanting Grant feel so good even though he’s bad for me? Why does he make me feel so helpless? Or what if I’m really just not as strong as I want to be? What if I’m just like my mother? What if I end up just like her?

  As the rain pours, some drops finding their way through the sheets of leaves, my cheeks grow wet with tears. Tired, I close my eyes, my last thought of my mother before I drift into unconsciousness.

  Help me, Mama.

  ***

  “Mama!”

  I call after her as she goes into the house, a smile on her face and her black hair with streaks of red bouncing off her shoulders. I follow her, hearing her laughter in the air as soon as I step through the door.

  “Mama?”

  I start looking for her, searching every room. But in each one I find a different man and no sign of her. I become more frantic as I climb up the stairs, pushing doors open, running down the hall.

  Where is she?

  “Aah!”

  I run in the direction of her scream, kicking the door down. As soon as it tumbles, I clasp my hands over my mouth and fall on my knees on the floor, my mother in front of me, surrounded by a puddle of her own blood.

  “Mama!”

  I sit up as I open my eyes, my heart pounding against my chest. Softly, I hear someone telling me to calm down. Vaguely, I feel the warmth of someone’s arms wrap around me. I sit still, waiting for the nightmare to fade as my heart begins to slow down, waiting for my vision and my mind to clear.

  When it does, I realize that I’m surrounded by patches of orange and blue.

  “Where am I?”

  “In my tent,” Grant answers. “Roger and I found you and brought you here while you were sleeping. We didn’t want you to catch a cold.”

  I glance around. “Where is he now?”

  “He’s left. I sent him off to deliver those documents that you wanted signed so badly.”

  The documents.

  “I’m the one who’s supposed to send those back.”

  “It’s all right. Roger and I both decided that you need to rest. He was more than happy to finish the errand. And I promised him I’d take care of you.”

  Take care of me? Suddenly, I become aware that Grant’s arms are still around me. I shake them off.

  “Shh.” Grant holds me tighter. “It’s all right. You don’t have to run away from me.”

  I continue struggling.

  “I’m sorry for what I did earlier. I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “Let me go!”

  He finally releases me, and I move away from him. “You may be my boss, but you don’t own me.”

  “I don’t claim to,” he answers calmly. “And I don’t want to.”

  “Liar.”

  “And if being your boss means you’ll be keeping your distance from me, I’d rather not be your boss.”

  I feel confused. “Are you firing me?”

  “I’m telling you that you have nothing to be afraid of, Abby.” He leans forward. “Especially not me.”

  I move farther from him, shaking my head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t believe you. I don’t need you. And I have nothing to give you.”

  “I’m not asking you to need me or to give me anything. I’m not going to take anything away from you.”

  I still don’t believe him.

  “I’m just asking you to want me.” Grant moves closer, taking my hand and placing it on his marbled chest over his racing heartbeat. “And to take me.”

  He moves my hand lower between his legs to another hard, bulging part of him, one that quivers beneath my fingers, straining against my palm.

  Then he takes his hand off mine, leaving it there on his crotch. My gaze travels back up, meeting his, my breath escaping me as I see the warmth in those blue eyes.

  Warmth, not heat.

  Exquisite, not overpowering. Strong but gentle. A ripple, not a wave.

  Slowly but surely, it spreads through me, enveloping every cell of my body, every fiber of my being, melting the pain from my past and my fears for the future.

  I’m no longer afraid.

  “You don’t have t
o give anything up, Abby,” Grant says, his voice as warm and tender as his gaze. “Just give in. You don’t—”

  I put a finger to his lips, silencing him. Then holding his gaze, I run my thumb over his lips. He parts them, letting out a deep breath as he closes his eyes. I place my hands on his cheeks and press my mouth against his, my tongue slipping into the crevice.

  Grant and I have kissed before but never like this – more like a caress than a clash, our tongues tangling instead of battling. And yet, the effect seems stronger, my mind already reeling, my body already burning.

  “Grant,” I gasp out his name before I kiss him harder, climbing onto his lap and moving my hands to his nape.

  He, in turn, places his hands on my back, tracing my spine until his fingertips disappear into the waistband of my jeans. Pulling my shirt out, he slowly lifts the hem until it reaches my underarms. I put my arms up, tearing my mouth off his just long enough to let the cotton pass through and then kissing him again fiercely.

  Madly.

  Shit. His mouth feels so good.

  My heart races, the warmth in my veins turning into prickling heat. My fingers get lost in his hair, gripping some of the golden locks as I press my body closer to his, rubbing my softness against his crotch even as my tongue continues to rub against his, the delicious friction sending ripples of pleasure throughout my body.

  So good.

  Grant’s fingers find the hooks of my bra, undoing them. I feel the cotton undergarment becoming loose, and my breasts, now full and tingling, spring free. Then I feel his hands on them, first tracing the sides before pushing me just slightly backward to cup them, his thumbs rubbing against the pert, sensitive nipples.

  Shit.

  I break the kiss to let out a gasp, which turns into a moan as Grant sucks on my neck, his skillful hands continuing to work their magic on my bare breasts, which are loving the attention.

  Outside, drops of rain start to fall again like beads bouncing off the tent. This time, I don’t mind it. Soon enough, I fail to even notice it as Grant lowers his head to suck on one of my breasts, my moans drowning out the rain as a stronger storm brews inside me.

  That tongue, that sinfully wicked tongue, sweeps across my nipple as his lips hold my breast captive, sending more shivers up my spine. As he moves to the other, his hands work on the button and zipper of my jeans, getting them open so that one can slip beneath my underwear.

  As his fingers brush against the heated mound of flesh under the cotton, I grab his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I tremble in anticipation. That anticipation turns into thrill as he finds the sensitive bud in my nest of curls then into madness as he coaxes it into bloom.

  “Shit!” I hiss, clinging to Grant as the playfulness of his tongue and the right amount of pressure from his fingers send me tumbling into a sharp, early orgasm.

  Panting, I collapse against Grant’s chest, resting my head on his shoulder as he, in turn, lies down on the floor of the tent. That spike of pleasure was amazing but that’s all it is – a spike. It’s just like the slide at the end of those water rides: Intensely exciting, but over too soon and leaving you wet, breathless, and wanting more.

  I want more.

  I lift myself on my arms, gazing down on Grant.

  He grins. “Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

  I make a face. “You do understand that you’re saying that while looking at my boobs.”

  He chuckles. “Well, they are beautiful.” He cups one and then reaches up to stroke my cheek. “And so are you.”

  Again, with the warmth, both from his eyes and his palm. My breath catches.

  “Liar,” I tease even though I can tell he meant what he just said.

  “Oh, you’re so sassy now that you’re on top, huh?” he teases me back.

  I grin. I have to admit being on top is kind of fun.

  “You know what? It’s unfair. I’m half naked and you’re not.”

  “Fine. Let’s fix that.” He lifts his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside.

  Now, I’m the one staring at his chest, marveling at its perfection. Indeed, his upper body is a masterpiece like one of those chiseled marble busts at a museum. I could stare at it all day, but I don’t want to. I’ve already stared at him long enough, several times before. Now is my turn to touch, to feel.

  Just as I’m about to touch his chest, I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his arm. Upon closer inspection, I realize that it’s a bald eagle, a red rose in its clutches.

  “What does it mean?” I ask him as I run my thumb over the ink.

  “I should think it’s obvious,” Grant answers. “The bald eagle is for America, the land of my birth. I never wanted to forget that. Also, I wanted to spite my grandfather.”

  I give him a puzzled look. “He doesn’t like America?”

  He shakes his head. “But not as much as he dislikes the fact that I have American blood.”

  “What about the rose?”

  “I had that added before my mom died. She always reminded me of a rose, and I wanted her to know that I would always remember even though she kept beating herself up for not being a better mother to me.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “I also think it’s appropriate to put the rose right in the eagle’s claws since she was captivated by America.”

  “Or the eagle could be your father, an American, the one who whisked her away. And now, they’re soaring together with her forever in his grasp.”

  He glances at the tattoo. “I never thought of it that way.” He looks at me. “And I never thought of you as a romantic poet.”

  “I watch Broadway, remember?”

  “Right.”

  My inspection of Grant’s tattoo done, I return to my original quest – his chest. I place my hand on his collarbone, tracing it toward the middle then running my fingers down the narrow strip of smooth skin between his pectorals. Looking at his face to observe his reaction, I follow the curve of one of them, skirting dangerously close to his nipple before circling around and touching it. He sucks in a breath, his chest rapidly rising and falling.

  Biting my lower lip, I do the same to the other, holding his gaze.

  Same reaction.

  All right. His nipples are sensitive but not that sensitive. I’m suddenly curious to find out where his pleasure buttons are. After all, he probably knows all of mine.

  I continue to explore my new playground, moving my hand lower so that I can trace the straight and curved lines of his taut abdomen.

  Amazing.

  “Did you always have this kind of body?” I ask curiously as I slowly approach his belly button.

  “No.”

  “Why have it then?”

  “I like to keep fit since I spend a lot of time outdoors,” Grant says. “And because it gets the attention of…”

  He stops talking, gasping as his muscles contract.

  “That tickles,” he tells me when I search his eyes for an explanation.

  “You mean this?” I brush my fingers around his belly button.

  His body trembles. “Fuck!”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I give him a mischievous grin. “So, what was that you were saying again?”

  He hesitates. “Women like a nice body.”

  “They do, do they?” I tickle him on purpose.

  He laughs, squirming beneath me.

  “You’re mean,” he says afterward, gasping for breath.

  “Oh, I am, am I?” I threaten to tickle him again, chuckling when he puts his hands up in surrender.

  Okay. So, I’ve found a ticklish spot. It’s not the kind of spot I wanted to find, though.

  Just then, I notice the scar to the right of his belly button, about an inch and a half long. I touch it.

  “Knife?” I ask.

  Grant nods.

  As curious as I am, I don’t ask what happened. I just lower my head to kiss it reverently, bothered by the thought of him being hurt.


  I don’t want to see him hurt again.

  As I do, my hand inadvertently brushes against his crotch and he sucks in a deep breath.

  Of course. His most sensitive spot is the most obvious one.

  “And what happened here?” I ask playfully, cupping the bulge.

  “You know very well what happened,” he answers, his voice suddenly hoarse.

  “Oh. Are you saying I did this?” I stroke him through his pants.

  “Fuck!” He shudders, throwing his head back.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I pop off the button and pull down the zipper, pressing my lips against the stain in his gray boxers. “I guess I’ll have to take responsibility then.”

  I take his cock out, my mouth and sex watering at the sheer size and magnificence of it. For a moment, I just stare at it, marveling at this part of him that’s a work of art all on its own. I stick out my tongue to lick the tip as I begin stroking.

  “Fuck, Abby!” Grant’s hips quake, his legs trembling beneath me.

  I stop stroking and start sucking, savoring the slightly salty, slightly bittersweet, slightly sour taste of him that’s unlike anything I’ve ever had before.

  “Fuck!”

  His curses continue between gasps as he shudders, his fingers tugging my hair. I’ve hit the jackpot, all right.

  Suddenly, he pushes me off, hands gripping my shoulders. Licking my lips, I look into his eyes, swallowing as I see the smoldering desire there.

  He wants me, and that realization sends a new buzz of excitement through my body.

  Grant wants me.

  And I want him.

  “Fuck me,” I whisper.

  The next instant, I’m on the ground, Grant above me. Kissing me with lips, teeth, tongue and all, he quickly pulls down my pants and my underwear then he spreads my legs and enters me with one thrust.

  There’s no restraint, no gentleness now but that’s fine. I’m not scared. I want this just as much as he does. Besides, I’m the one who made him feel like this.

  I cling to him as he pounds into me, my moans and gasps combined with his grunts and the slapping of skin against skin filling the tent.