The Billionaire Takes a Bride

  “Oh, please. You know you’re attractive.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Well now my ego is incredibly flattered.”

  “Let me think about it,” she said.

  “Absolutely. I want you to trust me. We should be able to trust each other, you know?”

  Trust? The fact that he was bringing trust up made her snort. “You’re one to talk. How about this, then?” She sat up and looked him in the eye. “You show me your secret room and what you’re doing with all these notebooks, and I’ll agree to give the sex thing a shot. That way, we’re both opening up and sharing. Fair enough?”

  His nostrils flared. For a moment, she actually thought he would refuse. Instead, he pushed himself off the couch. “You want to see? Fine.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sebastian led her down the hall to the room he always kept locked. He reached up to a painting that was next to the door, ran his fingers over the top edge, and pulled away a key. Aha. She watched as he put the key in the lock, and tried not to seem too eager. She’d shared so many of her secrets with him, and now she got to see his.

  He hesitated, a hand on the handle. “Do me a favor, Chelsea?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t laugh, okay? I know it doesn’t seem like much, but it’s very personal to me.” He pushed the door open and stepped aside so she could enter.

  She stepped inside, gazing around her in quiet surprise. It was a study all right, and a bit of a mess. The walls were papered with sketches of women. Some were famous and easily recognizable. She could see the swollen curve of Angelina Jolie’s lips on one face, and the strong, square jaw of Kirsten Dunst in another. They were sketches of women in all kinds of poses, some nudes, some not. All were tasteful.

  All were excellent and at a skill level that staggered her.

  The papers littered the room, hundreds and hundreds of sketches that must have taken hours upon hours to draw. A half-completed sculpture of feminine shoulders sat on a shelf, along with a mannequin.

  She moved toward the paper-covered desk and sucked in a breath when she saw another sketch of herself, her hand curled against one cheek and smiling at the viewer. She looked so soft and sultry. So inviting.

  Was this how he saw her? Chelsea’s skin flushed with pleasure. She turned and looked at him, surprised. “Why would I laugh at this?”

  He shrugged and crossed his arms, looking surprisingly vulnerable. “Because I’m a grown man and should be watching the stock market instead of doodling women?”

  “But your art is beautiful,” Chelsea said, picking up the sheet with her on it. “This looks just like me.”

  “I couldn’t get the eyes right,” he said, moving forward and plucking it from her hands. “You always smile with your eyes, and I wanted that to convey, but I’m not happy with it.”

  “Sebastian, these are wonderful. So wonderful. Why would you keep this a secret?”

  He put the picture back on the desk and rubbed his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “No one in my family approves. They feel that artistic sentiments are a waste. Unless it’s fashion, of course,” he said sarcastically. “That’s different.”

  “I would never laugh at any of this,” Chelsea said, genuinely shocked. “You’re crazy to think that this isn’t amazing. You’re so talented.”

  “And yet you hid derby from me, didn’t you?” He looked at her, mouth quirking in a faint smile of understanding. “Because you were afraid I wouldn’t understand or I’d try to make you stop?”

  She nodded slowly, getting it. It was difficult when you loved something so much and you’d had other people disapprove of it in the past. It made you leery of sharing it ever again. “I think it’s awesome. I’d love if you drew me.”

  He laughed. “I do draw you. Constantly.” He picked up a few sheets from the desk and showed her sketch after sketch of her in various poses and clothing she’d worn over the last week or so. A sketch on the wall was her in the champagne colored dress she’d worn to the dinner party that she’d met him at, and her body was curled under a desk, a familiar mischievous look in her eyes.

  So he’d remembered that moment and thought about it quite a bit, it’d seem. It was . . . flattering. And she felt a surge of affection for him, coupled with wistfulness. She wished she could be the woman he needed her to be.

  “Well,” she said in a light voice, turning away from the wonderful drawings and back to him. “You trusted me with your secrets, I suppose I can trust you with mine. When did you want to try this stuff out?”

  He spread his hands. “What better time than now?”

  “Now?” Her voice sounded squeaky and nervous. She cleared her throat and glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s late.”

  His mouth curved in that cocky grin she recognized and was coming to adore. “I promise not to tax you too hard. We can always go to bed and cuddle for a bit if you want. Like I said, you’re calling the shots.”

  “What, you don’t want to finish watching The Notebook?” she couldn’t resist teasing.

  He gave her a scathing look in response. “You picked that movie to torture me. Admit it.”

  “I did not. It’s a wonderful movie.”

  “So you’ve seen it? Then we don’t need to finish watching it.”

  “I’ve seen it six times,” she said, and at his outraged look, she giggled and raced out of the room.

  “You were making me sit through that shitty movie and you’ve seen it six times?” he bellowed as she sprinted down the hall. She heard him slam the door to the art room shut, and with a squeal, she raced for the bedroom. Pillows would make sufficient defense weapons. She needed one. She sprang for the bed and grabbed one just as he grabbed her hips from behind. When she gave another squeal of surprise, he immediately released her and backed away a few feet. “Shit, Chelsea, I’m so sorry.”

  She turned and faced him, batting him with the pillow. “For what?” At his wary expression, she sighed in frustration. “You were fine.”

  “I grabbed you.”

  “And I was fine with it. Are we going to do this constantly?”

  “Do what?”

  “Cast me into the role of victim?” she snapped. This time when she smacked him with her pillow, she was legitimately pissed. “I can have fun without freaking out, you know.”

  “But I thought—”

  “There’s no rape-victim guidebook. I can be fine about some things and not about others. So as long as you don’t stuff me into a dark closet and try to leave me there, I’m good, all right?”

  He looked shocked. “I would never—”

  “Exactly. So quit tiptoeing around me, okay?”

  “The last thing I want to do is scare you or hurt you.” He snapped his fingers and strode around the bed. “We need a safe word.”

  That made sense. “How about derby?”

  He shook his head and picked one of the spilled pillows up off the floor. “I have a feeling derby’s something you’d talk about in bed. What about pillow instead?”

  She snort-giggled and thwacked him with a pillow. “You really think I’d talk about derby in bed?”

  “Yeah I do,” he said. “You talk about it in your sleep.” He gave her a half-hearted nudge with a pillow.

  Surely he could pillow-fight better than that? She gave him a hearty smack with her pillow and moved to the far side of the bed before he could retaliate. “I do not! What do I say?”

  “Stuff about elbows and how you’re going to trip bitches on skates if they don’t let the jammer through.” He crawled after her on the bed, readying his pillow.

  Okay, that did sound like her. She thumped him with the pillow again. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to talk about it during sex.”

  “Yeah, but I might. Oh, Chelsea, baby, put the jammer hat on for me.”

  “Jammer hat? Jammer hat?” She died laughing. “It’s a helmet panty, you doofus.”

  He grabbed her leg while she was laughing and she went down. The next thing she knew,
she was on her back and he had slid on top of her. A boyish grin lit his face. “A helmet panty sounds sexual.”

  “That’s because you’re constantly thinking about sex,” she retorted. His face hovered inches above hers, close enough that she could see the gorgeous olive of his skin, the light stubble on his jaw, and the darker shades of brown in his brilliant green eyes.

  “It’s true. You’ve got me thinking about sex,” he murmured, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’m thinking about it right now.”

  She shivered, and a spike of worry shot through her. They’d been having fun, and now she was going to ruin it, wasn’t she? “Sebastian . . .”

  “I know. It’s okay.” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against him, then flipped onto his back. A moment later, she was on top of him and he was below her. “And there we go. Now I’m yours to play with.”

  Chelsea hesitated. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “I trusted you. You can trust me, right? I’m not going to do anything. We can just kiss.”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know that I like kisses anymore.”

  “Have you even tried?”

  “I kissed you at the party, didn’t I?”

  He grimaced and held a hand to his chest. “Ouch. There goes my ego.”

  “Oh, please. I think it’d take more than that to hurt your ego.” She sat up on top of him, her hips meeting his. She could feel his erection underneath her, but he linked his hands and put them behind his head, acting like it was no big deal.

  “You want me to close my eyes?” He did so, and puckered his mouth like he was waiting for a cartoonish kiss.

  Another giggle escaped her. He was being utterly silly and yet . . . it was making her relax. She should have felt tense, but she didn’t. “How should we do this?”

  “Well, I don’t want to brag, but I’ve heard it works best with lips on lips.” And he puckered again.

  She chuckled and leaned in and gave him a smacking kiss. “There.”

  “See? Was that so hard?” He kept his eyes closed.

  “It wasn’t,” she agreed. He made it easy. He actually made this kind of fun. So she leaned in and pressed her mouth against his again. His lips parted under hers, and she started to press small, light kisses to his mouth, mostly because she liked his lips. They were awesome lips, full and sculpted. Lips that would look sensual on a woman, but he still managed to look masculine and sexy. And it . . . wasn’t bad. She wasn’t bowled over with desire from kissing him, but she wasn’t freaking out, either, which was good. It was just sort of . . . there.

  Maybe she needed to try to deepen the kiss to get her brain to unlock. When his lips parted, she nibbled on his lower one. Man, she was rusty at kissing. All of this felt terribly awkward. Was it time to add tongue? She slicked hers against the part of his mouth.

  He groaned and his hands moved from behind his head to her hips, pulling her against him. His tongue flicked against her own.

  And that suddenly felt like too much. She pulled away, breathless and scared. “Derby. Derby, derby, pillow. Whatever the word was.”

  Sebastian’s eyes opened and the glazed look disappeared immediately. His hands flew off of her. “Shit. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, sitting up again.

  “That was good, though,” he said. “Did you enjoy it?”

  She bit her lip, thinking. “It was . . . all right?”

  He rubbed a hand down his face. “Damn. I was going to say I needed a cold shower but I think all that praise effectively killed my erection.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He spread his arms. “Wanna hug it out?”

  Chelsea laughed, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I do like a good cuddle.”

  “Then that’s all we’ll do for the rest of the night,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her, stroking her back. “I told you we’d go slow and if it takes months, then that’s what it’ll take.”

  “Years?”

  “Or years,” he agreed.

  She buried her face against his neck, inhaling his scent. He really was the sweetest guy.

  * * *

  He really, really was going to die of blue balls. Sebastian held Chelsea against him, stroking her back as she dozed.

  Years. Jesus.

  She hadn’t been into the kiss. He could tell that the moment he opened his eyes and saw her frustrated expression. Instead, she’d analyzed it like it was a problem. Like if she added tongue plus lips, it might equal fun. He wondered if she was in her own head too much to enjoy things.

  He wondered if the problem was him.

  That was a blow to the ego. He knew he was good-looking enough, and he was rich. And (to his great dismay) marginally famous. That usually added up to more women than he could possibly ever want. Now he wanted one, and she had zero interest in sex.

  One thing was clear, though. He wasn’t going to pressure her. She was going to take the reins, and he was going to let her have full control, however she wanted, for as long as she wanted.

  And while it might be a bit torturous for him at times, it would be the most delicious kind of torture. Already his mind was racing as to how he might ease her into their next round of awkward foreplay.

  At some point, she had to snap out of it, right? To recover what she felt she’d lost?

  Then again, it was like she said: There was no rape-victim guidebook on how to feel. She’d been through hell and emerged out the other side. If she took a bit longer to get turned on, then, well, he’d just have to wait for her.

  Sebastian’s hand stroked down her back, feeling the line of her spine under her soft skin. Some people were worth waiting for, and Chelsea was definitely one of them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Still mad at you,” Gretchen said, and stabbed a forkful of salad. “Getting married on a whim and not telling your friends. I mean, hello. If we were doing Vegas weddings, you know I’d have brought the Elvis impersonator.”

  “Which is probably why we didn’t do Vegas,” Chelsea said easily, stirring her soup with a spoon. They were having lunch at a busy little restaurant in the heart of Manhattan not too far from Cooper’s Cuppa. They’d spent the morning shopping, and Chelsea now had a few designer soaps (for comparison reasons) and new knee socks. Gretchen hadn’t bought much of anything, instead talking Chelsea’s ear off about the wedding and the issues she was having and how much stress it was.

  “Yes, but New Orleans? Gross. The last time we went there, someone vomited on me.” She wrinkled her nose and stabbed her salad again. “Also, this salad sucks.”

  “The soup’s pretty good,” Chelsea offered. “Want to switch?”

  “No. I need to lose weight before the wedding,” Gretchen said glumly. “A dressmaker told me I had fat thighs.”

  “What? You’re fine,” Chelsea assured her. Gretchen was a solid sort of girl, but she also had a sedentary job and an adoring fiancé. “And the wedding’s a year away.”

  “Oh, I figure I’ll start a diet and bail on it a dozen times between now and then. I’m hoping to eventually net a few pounds less than I started with.” Gretchen shrugged. “But enough about me and my wedding. I want to hear how it is being newly married to Sebastian. I can’t believe you two got hitched. Didn’t he date that chick with the duck lips from that show?”

  “What chick? What show?”

  “The one his family’s on?”

  Oh, right. She kept forgetting about that.

  But Gretchen gave her a weird look. “You haven’t seen The Cabral Empire? Seriously? And you married a Cabral?” At Chelsea’s headshake, Gretchen picked up a piece of bread and took a bite out of it. “The rock you’ve been hiding under called. It misses you.”

  “I met his mother and an ex. They ambushed us when we got back from the wedding.” She stirred her spoon in her soup again, hoping it’d make it look like she was eating. It wasn’t that the soup wasn’t delicious. It was that she was a little too troub
led to focus on eating at the moment.

  “Oh, man, his mother.” Gretchen leaned forward. “The one and only episode I saw of that show, she was getting her asshole bleached. On television. Who does that?”

  “His mother, apparently,” Chelsea said faintly.

  “Everyone knows you get that shit done in private.” At Chelsea’s wide-eyed stare, Gretchen waved a hand. “I’m kidding. Mostly. Though I might get it done for the wedding.”

  “Um.”

  “Still kidding.” She took another bite of bread. “So, how’s married life? For someone that’s a newlywed, you don’t look all that content. Shouldn’t you be glowing and shit?”

  Chelsea put her spoon down, thinking. She’d never told Gretchen about her . . . trauma. But she was dying to talk to someone about the awkwardness of her situation. Someone other than Sebastian. So she decided to share just a little. Just enough that she wouldn’t traumatize her friend on what was supposed to be a light and fun lunch. “Actually, I have a small issue. I have problems with . . . intimacy.”

  Gretchen’s eyes went wide. She put her hand on Chelsea’s. “Oh, my god. Is that why you two got married? He’s impotent and wants to leave his fortune to someone?”

  “I said I have problems with intimacy. Not him. Meeeee.”

  “Oh.” Gretchen thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Yeah, I don’t understand. Sorry. Details, please. You can’t get a ladyboner?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “I’m not . . . into it. At all.”

  “None of it?” Gretchen looked shocked. Her fork went to her plate, salad forgotten. “But . . . but sex is so yummy. No orgasms? No kissing? You like kissing, right?”

  Chelsea grimaced. “I like cuddling. That’s about it.”

  “Oh, my god. This is tragic.” She leaned in and hissed. “Is it Sebastian? Is he a shitty lover? Because I could see that. The hot guys don’t have to try hard at all and—”

  “It’s not him. He’s fine. It’s me. I just . . . can’t get into it. He’s being super patient and says he doesn’t mind, but I worry, you know?”

  “I’m still stuck on the first part. What about masturbating? You masturbate, right?”