Page 112 of How to Train Your Billionaire

“Maybe,” she says, her voice dropping to that husky register that does things to me. “Though I think I might need a repeat performance. You know. Just to be sure.”

“Is that so?”

She steps closer, close enough that I can smell my soap on her skin. “Mm-hmm. Quality control is very important in my line of work.”

“And what line of work is that again?”

“Professional temptress, apparently.” Her fingers trail down my chest, and I have to bite back a groan. “Though I’m still learning the ropes.”

“You’re a fast learner.”

“I had a very thorough teacher.”

Damn. The way she saysthoroughshould be illegal.

Because that’s exactly what last night was. We spent hours together tangled in my sheets, learning exactly what the other liked.

I reach for her, but she dances away with a laugh, spatula still in hand.

“Uh-uh. Breakfast first. I didn’t slave over a hot stove just to watch it get cold.”

“I can think of better ways to work up an appetite.”

“I’m sure you can.” She waves the spatula at me like a weapon. “But I’m not letting you distract me with your ... your ...” She gestures vaguely at my entire existence.

“My what?”

“Your stupid perfect chest and your bedroom hair and that thing you do with your mouth.”

“What thing?”

“You know what thing.”

I absolutely do know what thing. But watching her get flustered is too entertaining to stop.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

Her cheeks flush pink. “The smirking thing. Where you look all smug and satisfied like you know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

“Don’t I?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point is breakfast. Food. Sustenance.” She turns back to the stove with more force than necessary. “Some of us need actual nutrition to function.”

I move behind her again, caging her against the counter.

“Hayes.” Her voice is breathless.

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“The thing.”