The Intern: The Billionaire's Successor
“You do,” he continues, speaking as he again folds his arms across his broad chest. “But regardless, you’ve lied at least once tonight—either by calling me an asshole when you didn’t mean it, or by saying that you don’t think I’m an asshole when you actually do. That means you’ve broken our contract. That’s no good, Olivia.”
I’m not sure how someone who is only three years older than me, and who used to blush and fidget in my mere presence, can suddenly make me feel so small. Davis succeeds. Oh, does he succeed.
He lets out a long, impatient exhale before he raises his hand and runs it through his short, blond hair. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“Again. Call me an asshole again,” he demands, locking his eyes back on mine after a quick glance away. “I gave you the right to say whatever the hell you want to me, and you clearly wanted to call me an asshole. So do it.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“I don’t believe you,” he counters caustically before he reaches under the table and rests his hand on my bare knee. “Say it.”
His hand rises up and over my knee before he brings it to rest on my thigh. He squeezes tightly—not tight enough to hurt me, but enough to let me know that he could if he felt like it. I gasp before I place my hand on top of his, urging him to stop before he tries to raise it any higher.
“Such a slut,” he murmurs, keeping his voice soft. “The way your body is reacting is clear as day: You would let me touch you here. You’d let me finger you if I wanted. I bet if I slid my finger into your folds, I’d find you wet and eager.”
“You’re an asshole,” I grit out, meaning it this time as I shove his hand off of my thigh.
“That wasn’t so hard.” With a soft exhale, he leans back in his chair, looking like a portrait of satisfaction.
“You’re sick.”
Davis raises his shoulder again, as if he’s heard it all before. “We’re both a little sick if you ask me. I may be an asshole, but you’re the one whose nipples are so hard that everyone in this restaurant can see them.”
Queen of the idiots that I am, I make the mistake of looking down. To my chagrin, Davis isn’t wrong. My nipples are hard and pebbled against my dress, where the points are visible through the fabric.
“Shame, really,” he goes on. “Nobody else knows just how good those nipples look when they’re covered in my cum.”
Holy shit that shouldn’t sound so good to me. I should be disgusted. I should be appalled.
“I’m getting the check,” he announces, keeping his attention on my nipples. “Are you ready to go?”
“I’m going home,” I counter. “Your brain is fucked if you think I’m going home with you after this.”
Davis lifts an eyebrow. “You’re mad at me?” he asks before he softens his expression. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”
I blink a few times, not sure if I trust what I’m seeing. A moment ago, Davis was toying with me for his own amusement. Now he’s giving me this muted, apologetic expression that I haven’t seen since Amsterdam.
“Stop toying with me,” I order, doing everything I can to keep my tone firm. “I don’t like it when men think they can treat a woman like shit under the assumption that the woman won’t ever leave them. I’ll leave, Davis. Test me.”
“I don’t want to test you, I want to fuck you,” he answers casually like he’s telling me about what he’ll be watching on TV later tonight. “I’ve been clear on that since the beginning: I live to fuck you, Olivia Nolan. I think about it constantly.”
God, this man is good. That comment is all it takes for my stomach to swell into flutters. His words are crude, but the notion drives me wild. Coupled with the sweet, borderline boyish expression on his sculpted face, I’m a goner.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a little sick.
“Come home with me,” he continues before he reaches under the table, completely bypasses my thigh, and places his hand on top of mine. “Tonight. I want to fuck you tonight.”
It’s not exactly prose I’d ever find in a Jane Austen novel, but when he says that it sounds like the most romantic thing that I’ve heard in a long time. I’m too easy. I find myself nodding certainly. “I’ll go home with you then.”
A few minutes later, we’re back in the SUV and Davis is holding my hand. Tipsy on wine and more than satisfied with six courses of the fanciest, most confusing food I’ve ever eaten in my life, I let him.
His grip is reassuring, and I can’t help but remember the last time that Davis held my hand: lying in bed in Amsterdam, sharing a pillow. He kissed each of my fingertips, one after the other. Each kiss had sparked a different set of sensations in me: surprise, excitement, pleasure, regret, and tremendous sadness.
“Come here,” he murmurs, cocking his head to the side to beckon me towards him.
I slide over until I’m pressed up next to him, letting him wrap his arm around me. The heat of his body takes over, familiar and all-consuming. He dips low and brings his lips to mine, kissing me softly for once.
A groan escapes me, one that I try so hard to keep in. His taste makes it nearly impossible to hold back though. I want to feel more of him—all of him. My hands move like they have a mind of their own, softly caressing his chest as he pulls me into his lap.