The Billionaire Takes a Bride

  “You did awesome,” he said, voice hoarse with emotion. Fuck, she was so strong. He was so damn impressed with her.

  “Pisa and I became friends, and we became roomies. And she didn’t mind that I had to sleep with the lights on or I didn’t like being alone. Everyone’s a little weird, you know? But Pisa moved . . .” She spread her hands. “And here I am with you.”

  She looked at him with a calm, even gaze that he admired. To be so calm while describing a horrific trauma. It was humbling. His life had been a fucking breeze compared to hers. His biggest problem was his mother and a few cameras. She’d been through horrible situations and come out stronger on the other side.

  “So now I’m just a derby girl and a soap maker on the side, since I have to figure out how to pay the rent.” Her smile returned, flashing him a dimple. “I’m a great derby player but a rotten soap maker. I just don’t have the killer business instinct. I don’t even have my own website. I just set up on Etsy and sell at local festivals and stuff.” She shrugged. “I’d rather be Chesty LaRude most days than Chelsea.”

  “I like both aspects. Why can’t they both be you?”

  Her smile faded a little. “Chesty’s very open with her sexuality. She vamps for the camera and the audience, and it doesn’t matter if they appreciate her or not.” She shrugged. “It’s easier when you have the helmet and the roller skates. It’s like you’re donning another personality. I picked a sexy, fun one because I wanted to reclaim who I was.”

  “I thought it was great.” Hell, he could hardly wait to draw her.

  Her expression hardened and she gazed off into the distance. “A lot of men will give a woman shit if she dresses sexy and flirts, saying she’s asking for it. And if she’s raped, they say she deserved it for provoking them. But it’s my fucking body. I’ll wear whatever I want and that doesn’t mean anyone has the permission to tell me what to do or how to be.”

  “You can dress and act however you want when we’re together, you know,” Sebastian said.

  She gave him a challenging look. “I know that. I don’t need your permission.”

  He scratched his head, feeling sheepish. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  She reached out and patted his knee, the first contact she’d made with him since starting her horrible story. “It’s all right. I know your penis makes you think that you make all the decisions.”

  He snorted. “That wasn’t it, but I’m glad you’re in a forgiving mood.” Something about her story wasn’t sitting right with him. “So the guy. Was it the bartender?”

  She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  Her gaze flicked and her mouth tightened. She shook her head. “Nope. I couldn’t identify anyone. The rape kit was contaminated in-house and unable to be used as evidence. Sometimes the system works, sometimes it doesn’t. I’ve come to terms with it.”

  Rage burst in his mind. “Are you fucking kidding me? That guy is out walking the streets? I can call my lawyer in the morning. We’ll get entire teams on this—”

  “No,” she said, reaching for his hand. She squeezed it. “I don’t want to reopen that. I don’t want to go through everything again. That’s not why I’m telling you this.”

  His nostrils flared. Sebastian’s fingers squeezed hers. The urge to push aside her concerns and help her whether she wanted it or not? It raged in his mind. He wanted her to have justice. But looking at her unhappy face, he swallowed those concerns. “I . . . won’t do anything without your say-so.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “It’s hard enough to talk about this to someone other than Pisa.”

  “No one else knows? Not Gretchen or your other friends?”

  She shook her head and let out a shuddering breath, and he felt another surge of protectiveness that she would trust him with such a terrible secret.

  Her fingers brushed against his and his stupid cock reacted. He forced himself to remain still, to ignore it, and squeezed her hand again. “I feel like I understand you a bit better now, Chelsea. But . . . I guess I have to ask. Why the marriage?”

  “Because people don’t hit on married women. They’re off limits. When I’m with you, I’m completely and utterly safe.”

  And she smiled at him.

  He pulled her against him into an enormous bear hug, and she went into his arms, trusting and content. She gave another long, shuddering sigh and her arms went around his waist. “I’m glad we have our understanding, Sebastian.”

  And he didn’t know how he felt about that. Because while he was coming to care for her . . . he was really starting to hate their marriage.

  Chapter Fourteen

  One Week Later

  Sebastian threw a piece of popcorn at the flat screen as romantic music swirled through the speakers. “This movie is such crap.”

  Chelsea giggled and poked his arm, then reached for another handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap. “You said I got to pick this time, and this is what I picked. I watched Fast and Furious with you last time. Now you have to watch The Notebook with me.”

  “I didn’t realize you were going to torture me, though,” he grumped.

  She just chuckled and rested her cheek on his arm, continuing to watch the movie. “Be quiet. This is romantic.”

  He made a noise of pain that she ignored.

  The last week of living with Sebastian had been so much fun. After her big confession, they’d come to an understanding and an easy friendship. She felt . . . free, now that he knew her secret. He hadn’t judged her, hadn’t told her she was asking for it, hadn’t told her that she should have been smarter. Hadn’t told her she needed to get over it. He was upset on her behalf, and really, that was all she needed.

  They’d been sleeping together ever since, and their marriage had turned into an intense friendship. It was like having the perks of a boyfriend without the worry of sex, and Chelsea loved it. She and Sebastian went out to dinner with friends, he attended her bouts, and they had started snuggling on the couch each night and watching movies. When they were apart, they texted each other constantly.

  Really, she kind of adored it. It was the best of both worlds—she had the affection and attention of a guy, and she didn’t have to worry about the sexual part, which had been pretty much dead inside her since her rape. And she didn’t even have to worry about excusing it. And if sometimes she looked at Sebastian’s ass a bit too long when he got out of bed, or looked at his full, perfect mouth when he was sleeping and wondered what it’d be like to have a real kiss with him, it wasn’t important to her.

  What was important was having fun. Like now.

  Sebastian made a sound of pain and stared at the screen. “They’re kissing in the rain. Does this guy have no nuts?”

  “He’s in love!” she exclaimed, but couldn’t help but laugh.

  They watched as the two characters on screen plastered themselves against each other and began to make out.

  “That does it,” Sebastian said, handing the bowl to her and getting up. “It’s time for a bathroom break.”

  “But this is the most romantic part!”

  “You can recap it for me,” he said, heading upstairs.

  She frowned, watching as he disappeared. There was a bathroom right down the hall. Why wasn’t he heading there? She looked over at his spot on the couch, where they’d been cuddling for most of the afternoon. He’d left his ever-present notepad behind.

  Curious, she picked it up. Since “marrying” Sebastian, she’d noticed that he liked to make notes in his notebook whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. It went everywhere with him, too. She assumed it was his “thing,” like the way she tended to rattle on about nothing in particular when she was nervous. Sebastian made notes to himself. No big deal.

  Except he never shared what those notes were. He never showed her, and she never asked, just like his locked study. She knew it wasn’t a big deal, because the other day he’d let one of the maids
in to clean and she hadn’t run out of the room screaming. But whatever it was, it was deeply personal to him and he wasn’t ready to share it.

  She knew what that was like. Except . . . she’d shared and he hadn’t.

  So she picked up his notebook and contemplated it for a moment, then flipped it open and peeked.

  And gasped. He was sketching. More important, he was sketching her.

  And he was amazingly good.

  The first page was her face, relaxed in sleep, her hair spilling over her brow. The entire drawing was done with delicate lines and shading, tiny hatch-marks indicating shadow. It looked just like her. Stunned, she flipped to the next page and saw another drawing of her, this time skating on the track, her short ruffled skirt flying behind her. The next picture was of the old woman who lived next door, a grocery bag in hand as she stood on the steps and petted a cat.

  She paused the movie and kept flipping through, knowing she shouldn’t and yet unable to help herself. God, he was incredibly good. Over and over, he’d sketched faces of people she could clearly make out. There was Gretchen in her Ursula costume, vamping for her audience. Her pregnant sister Audrey, glowing, a hand on her belly. More sketches of Chelsea—Chelsea laughing, Chelsea crying, sleeping, and deep in thought.

  Good lord, why was he hiding this? She flung herself to her feet and tucked the notebook under her arm, heading up the stairs to find him. She knew it was personal, but she had to know more. To think that he was hiding his talent by pretending to be writing notes?

  As she went up the stairs, she saw the bathroom doors were open. Where the heck was he? On a hunch, she went to the bedroom.

  The door was cracked, but she could see his back. She peeked inside, curious. His pants were loose at his waist and she saw his hand moving in front of him. He groaned and threw his head back, and she gasped. He was masturbating.

  “Sebastian?” She pushed the door open and stared at him, a myriad of emotions racing through her. Shocked, yes. Titillated? Maybe a little. Betrayed? Absolutely.

  Because for the last week, he’d been getting up occasionally to head to the “bathroom” during sleep or during movies. Actually, he got up and “took a moment” a lot, which made her wonder if he was constantly masturbating.

  And that hurt, because weren’t they supposed to have a platonic relationship? It was just more shit they were hiding from each other.

  And she was suddenly really tired of it.

  He turned, and sure enough, his hand was on his cock as it jutted out of his pants. A really big, thick cock with a perfectly shaped purple head. Not that she was noticing these things. He continued to stroke it, as if unable to help himself. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you’re jerking off to The Notebook,” she commented, unsure if this was funny or hurtful. Right now she was going for funny.

  “God no,” he said. “I just . . . need a moment. Can you close the door?”

  “No!”

  “What, are you going to watch?” He continued to stroke himself.

  “What?” Her jaw dropped. “You . . . you want me to watch?”

  Sebastian’s mouth flattened. “Well, I could pretend that I’m turned on by that stupid-ass movie, but my cock will deflate at the thought. I just . . . needed a moment to myself.”

  Her heart fluttered. “Because of . . . me?”

  He gave her an exasperated look. “Seriously? You have to ask? Shut the door already. Let a man finish in silence.”

  “But—”

  “Damn it, Chelsea, let’s not do this, all right?” He released his cock and hitched his pants up, heading for the door. “Either get the fuck out or—” He stopped himself.

  She squeaked and shut the door quickly, then raced down the stairs. Her heart was hammering.

  Get the fuck out or . . .

  Or what? Or help? But . . . they were supposed to be just friends, weren’t they?

  She returned to the sofa, her stomach churning. His sketch pad was still in her hand, and for some reason the drawings weren’t important at the moment. She tossed it back aside and curled up on her end of the couch, her thoughts a tangled mess.

  She was an idiot, wasn’t she? All this time she was cuddling up to a handsome, sexy guy and assumed he didn’t want sex, either. Of course he wanted sex. He just didn’t want the issues that came with a relationship.

  Which meant that he didn’t want her, because why else marry her?

  And really that should have been a relief, but it just made her feel more confused and hurt. Did he think she was . . . dirty because of what she’d told him?

  She didn’t know what to think. She wrung her hands unhappily and waited for him to come down the stairs.

  Just like that, her happy, content bubble vanished again. Why on earth had they thought this would ever work?

  He came back downstairs several minutes later, clothes tucked in and neatly back to normal. His hair was perfectly in place, and her face grew red, thinking about the visual of him gripping his cock and stroking it, and her catching him.

  This was so awkward. Everything was going to be different now, she just knew it. She wanted to cry. She’d found a guy she felt safe with, and felt like there were no demands. Now that was gone.

  He sat down heavily on the couch next to her and rubbed his face, not saying anything.

  Chelsea glanced down at his pants. Had he . . . ?

  “If you’re wondering, no. It killed my hard-on pretty fast to watch you run away like that.” He glanced over at her, unsmiling. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’ve been trying to be discreet.”

  It felt like there was a knot in her throat. “So this has been happening often?”

  He was silent for a moment, then looked over at her. “I really thought I could do this. That I could be platonic and not an asshole. And then you had to catch me in the worst way possible.” He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry this isn’t what you needed, but I can’t do a platonic marriage. I knew I was in over my head after that kiss—”

  “The kiss?” She cocked her head, curious. “What kiss? In the airport?”

  “No, in the library, when we first agreed to this.”

  Her eyes widened. “Wait. You knew then that you couldn’t be platonic but you still wanted to give this a shot?”

  “It seemed like the perfect solution to our problems, didn’t it?” He gave her a look that was full of self-loathing. “Too bad I can’t stop thinking with my cock. I was hoping that at some point maybe you’d come to be attracted to me, too. That maybe we could move forward if I was patient. And then after you told me . . .” He shook his head. “Well, just shows that I’m stupid.”

  Hot tears filled her eyes then. “And you stopped being attracted to me because I was raped?”

  Sebastian gave her a look of shock. “What? God, no. Not that.” He pulled her against him and began to rub her back, comforting her. “If anything, it made me more attracted to you because you’re so fucking strong. But I’d feel like the biggest dick in the world if I tried to put the moves on you after promising you we’d be utterly platonic. I can’t do that to you. Not when you want nothing more than to be safe.”

  It felt so good to be held against him, to snuggle and be comforted. This was what a boyfriend would do for her, she realized. And she was getting everything she wanted out of their relationship . . . and he wasn’t.

  She was the one being unfair. And yet . . . “I don’t know if I told you, Sebastian. But . . . after my incident, I had to compartmentalize a lot of how I was feeling so I could function. And a lot of my sexuality went away.”

  He rubbed her shoulder. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Chelsea.”

  “I wish I could be how you wanted me to be,” she told him, sad. “I want to. I really do. But that part of me is dead. I wasn’t a virgin when it happened. I’d had sex before, and it was fine.” She’d even orgasmed a few times, though it depended on her partner. She
loved—and missed—kissing most of all, though. God, she’d loved kissing once upon a time. “But ever since the attack, I can’t even look at a guy in that way. That part of me is dead, Sebastian. And you deserve someone that’s going to be able to give you what you need.”

  He shook his head and hugged her closer, and she burrowed against him. “I should be the one apologizing to you, Chelsea. This shouldn’t even be a factor in our fake relationship. I’m the world’s biggest asshole because you wanted this to be platonic and I can’t.”

  “I just . . .” She sighed, thoughtful. “I wish I wasn’t broken. Because if I was going to kiss someone, it’d be you, Sebastian. You’re so good to me, and sexy and funny. I just . . . don’t think I can.”

  “Have you tried?” His voice was gentle.

  She gave a small shake of her head. Just the thought was terrifying. Memories of the yawning blackness flashed through her mind and she pushed them away, back in the corner of her mind she never went to.

  His hand stroked her back, over and over. Then, slowly, he paused. “Do you want to try?”

  Chelsea sat up, gazing at him. “Try what? Try sex? Are you kidding me? You think you’re the man with the magic penis that’s going to cure everything that ails me?” Now she was offended.

  He looked stricken. “No, not at all! It’s just that . . . you feel safe around me, right?” At her nod, he continued. “Then what better person to experiment with, sex-wise? There’s no pressure.”

  “Except that you’re masturbating.”

  He grinned. “I am a man. But I was trying to take care of things so I didn’t bother you or make you uncomfortable. Believe it or not, I sincerely care about you as a friend and want you to be happy. We’ll go as slow or as fast as you want. It’s entirely your call.”

  “And if I can’t be happy and want to go back to platonic? If I can’t handle fooling around?”

  “Then we’ll figure it out. Even if it means annulment. Like I said, there are zero feelings involved, so you won’t hurt my pride if you say that you’re not attracted to me, all right?” He squeezed her against him.