My stomach growls loudly, interrupting my thoughts. I haven’t eaten since a sad package of cheese and crackers more than twelve hours ago. The hunger pangs had disappeared during the stress of the auction, but now they’re back with a vengeance.
Ugh, perfect.
After twenty more minutes of tossing and turning, I surrender. Food first, then sleep.
I pad barefoot down the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible. I seriously don’t want to wake anyone up, especially Ronan. The mansion is eerily quiet at night, my footsteps muffled by plush carpet. Moonlight streams through massive windows, casting long shadows across marble floors. I trail my fingers along cool walls for guidance.
When I finally find the kitchen, it’s like entering another world. All sleek surfaces and state-of-the-art appliances gleaming in the dim light. I flip a switch, and subtle under-cabinet lighting illuminates the space with a warm glow.
Well, damn.
So this is how rich people live. This kitchen alone is probably more expensive than an entire year of Mom’s treatments.
The refrigerator is a stainless-steel monolith. I open it to find it fully stocked—fresh produce, dairy, meats, all meticulously organized. After a quick survey, I gather ingredients for a simple omelet. Eggs, cheese, spinach, mushrooms. Basic comfort food. After living off ramen and canned beans for weeks now, this actually feels like a Michelin-star meal to me.
I find a bowl in a cabinet and whisk the eggs with a splash of milk. The familiar motions calm me. This, at least, I know how to do. The butter sizzles as it hits the pan, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
I nearly drop the spatula at the sound of Ronan’s voice behind me. I turn slowly, and my mouth goes dry.
He stands in the doorway, barefoot, wearing only black pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips. His chest—dear God, his chest—is bare, revealing muscles that look carved from marble and a scattering of tattoos across his left pectoral and shoulder. One snakes down his right bicep, disappearing around his elbow. His dark hair is slightly mussed, and the shadow of stubble along his jaw has deepened since earlier.
Holy mother of…
How is he even real?
I never understood my girlfriends who drooled over men on magazines, TV shows, and billboards. But right now, I have to physically stop my jaw from hanging.
I get it, girls. I get it now.
“I—” My voice fails me. I clear my throat and try again. “I was hungry.”
Hungry. Right. A minute ago, for omelet. But now, for something else.
Ronan moves into the kitchen with the fluid grace of a predator, all controlled power. “The auction organizers are supposed to feed the participants.”
“They offered cheese and crackers around noon. Not exactly sustaining.”
A flash of something—anger?—crosses his face, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his muscles shift and flex, and I force myself to look away before I start drooling.
My core clenches, and I’m pretty sure I just soaked my panties. God, I’m wet, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.
“You should have said something in the car. We could have stopped.”
I shrug, turning back to my eggs, which are starting to cook at the edges. I need a distraction. Anything than thoughts of me running my hands along those muscles. “It wasn’t a priority at the time.”
“What was the priority, then?”
The question hangs between us. I focus on folding my omelet, buying time.
“Figuring out what I’d gotten myself into,” I finally answer, aiming for honesty without revealing too much. “Understanding what you wanted from me. No one throws three hundred grand without asking for something in return, not even billionaires.”
“And have you figured it out?”
I slide the omelet onto a plate and turn to face him. “Not entirely.”
Ronan moves closer, reaching past me to open a drawer. His arm brushes mine, sending electricity skating across my skin. He’s close enough that I can smell him—clean soap, a hint of mint, and something darker, richer. Heat radiates from his body, and I instinctively rub my thighs together, seeking friction, desperate for him to relieve the terrible, empty ache within me.
God, how did I end up like this? It’s like I’m one accidental touch away from begging him to take me.
“Silverware,” he explains, holding up a fork. Our fingers brush as he hands it to me, and I swear I feel the contact all the way to my toes.
“Thanks.” My voice sounds breathless even to my own ears. “Did I wake you?”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Working?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“You.”
The single word sends a rush of heat through me. He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if admitting he was lying awake thinking about a woman he just met is the most natural thing in the world.
I take a bite of my omelet to hide my reaction, but it’s a mistake. Now I have to swallow past the tightness in my throat. Ronan watches me eat with unnerving intensity.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod. “Would you like some?”
“I’ll make my own.” He moves to the refrigerator, and I can’t help but watch the play of muscles across his back as he reaches for eggs and vegetables.
Looking this hot should be a crime. Being this hot and rich, though? The world really isn’t fair.
The kitchen isn’t small by any means, but with Ronan in it, the space feels intimate, almost confined. We move around each other in a strange dance, his body sometimes coming close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but never quite touching.
I try to ignore the disappointment.
“You cook,” I say as he expertly cracks eggs into a bowl.
“You sound surprised. It’s not like I’m making filet mignon.”
“Most billionaires don’t make their own omelets at” —I glance at the clock on the microwave— “two in the morning.”
“Most billionaires didn’t grow up like I did, and like I said, it’s just an omelet.”
There’s a story there, but he doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. Instead, I watch his hands as he works—strong, capable hands. An unbidden image slips into my mind. An image of those same hands exploring every inch of my body, running along my thighs, dipping inside—
Stop it, Rayne. Stop! Remember why you’re here in the first place.
“What’s that one mean?” I ask, nodding toward a tattoo on his shoulder blade—an intricate geometric design surrounding what looks like a date in Roman numerals.
He glances back at me. “The day I bought my first company.”
“And that one?” I point to a stylized phoenix on his bicep.
A smile plays at his lips. “Are you cataloging my tattoos, Rayne?”
My name from his mouth sends a shiver down my spine. It feels so much like a caress. “Just curious.”
“Curious about my body?”
“About your tattoos,” I say a little too defensively, though we both know it’s not entirely true.
Seems to me, lying to Ronan is basically pointless.
His omelet sizzles in the pan, filling the silence between us. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, softer. “The phoenix was my first. Got it when I was eighteen. It means what you’d expect—rising from ashes. A bit of a cliche, I know, but I was angry and determined and desperate to prove myself.”
Our eyes meet, and something passes between us—a current of understanding, of recognition. We’re both more than we appear to be.
I would never have thought I’d find a billionaire relatable, but here we are.
I finish my omelet and take my plate to the sink. When I turn, Ronan is right there, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. We stand like that for a heartbeat, two, three. I can count his eyelashes. See the faint scar above his left eyebrow. Feel his breath, warm against my forehead.
“Excuse me,” I finally whisper, my voice embarrassingly husky.
He doesn’t move immediately. “You unmoor me, Rayne, because you’re so far from what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone already trying to get into my bed by now.”
I swallow hard. “Maybe I have more self-respect than that.” Or control because God knows that’s exactly where I want to be.
“Or maybe,” he says, finally stepping aside, “you’re just better at the game than most.”
“This isn’t a game to me.” The words come out sharper than I intended. I think of my mom, lying in bed, waiting for all the treatments we can’t yet afford.
He studies me, his dark eyes unreadable. “Good. Because it isn’t to me, either.”
I slip past him, acutely aware of every inch of my body as it passes near his. My skin tingles with awareness. With want. The intensity of my reaction to him is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want Ronan, and it terrifies me.
At the kitchen doorway, I pause and look back. He stands exactly where I left him, watching me with that same unwavering focus.
“Goodnight, Ronan.”
“Sweet dreams, Rayne.”
I flee down the hallway, my heart racing, my body humming with unspent energy. Back in my room, I slide between the sheets, knowing sleep will be even more elusive now. All I can think about is Ronan—his body, his eyes, the electricity between us.
Men like him don’t go for women like me. So what does he really want?
