Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 17

“Of course, Liam.” Alastair’s insincere drawl grates on my last nerve. “She’s all yours.”

He raises Gemma’s hand to his lips in mock chivalry, his eyes gleaming with challenge. “Gemma, it’s been an absolute pleasure.”

I refrain from wiping that smug look off his face right here on the dance floor for touching what’s mine. Even if Gemma is just an employee.

Gemma flushes as Alastair saunters off, likely in search of Victoria. Good riddance.

I’ll admit, the green dress is exquisite on her. She looks like a sexy mermaid, ready to lure men to their death. And I’ll be damned if I let Harrington get his hands on her.

“Are you trying to piss me off?” I ask in a low voice, staring down into her guarded green eyes.

“He asked me for a dance. It would have been rude to turn him down. Besides, isn’t there a saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer?”

“Is that what you were doing?” I ask. “Getting nice and close to the enemy?”

“I was just dancing with the guy, Liam. That’s all.”

She moves to exit the dance floor, but I catch her hand, stopping her in her tracks. Her breath hitches. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to dance with you. Thought that was pretty obvious.”

“Oh,” she mutters, clearly thrilled by the prospect, but she lets me put my hands on her hips and tug her close. “Fine.”

She stiffly loops her arms around my neck. We lapse into a charged silence as we move. I’ve never had a woman act so awkward when I try to dance with her.

“Any offers Harrington made were bullshit,” I finally say. “Just a pathetic power play to get under my skin.”

Her eyes widen, telling me I’ve hit the mark. I know Alastair’s games inside and out.

Then her eyes flash. “I’m not naive, Liam,” she snaps, her voice laced with indignation. “But you don’t think I’m good enough for Vertex to want to poach me? Is that it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They’d be lucky to have you. Any firm would kill to have you. But Alastair plays a nasty game I don’t want you getting mixed up in.”

Her eyes blaze up at me, a challenge sparking in them. “And you don’t?”

My hands tighten on her hips, pulling her flush against me as I lean in close, my breath hot on her forehead. “Just remember that ironclad non-compete you signed upon joining my firm.” The thought of Alastair stealing Gemma is pissing me off, making me irrationally possessive.

I feel her body go rigid against mine, her jaw clenching stubbornly. “I haven’t forgotten the terms of my employment contract.”

“See that you don’t,” I murmur, letting a hint of threat color my tone.

I spin her back out, our eyes locking as she faces me again. “What did he say to you in your little chat?”

“Reading between the lines? That everyone at the annual charity regatta hates you.”

I scoff. “I don’t even attend.”

“No, but you damn well make sure that Ashbury Thornton wins every year.”

“Isn’t that the point of the thing? It’s a race.”

“Some might argue it’s meant to be a networking event.”

“And yet people only remember the winners.”

She tuts. “That’s not true.”

We fall into silence again as we move. I can practically taste her desperation for this dance to end, for the song to fade out so she can escape the big bad boss she claims to despise.

But I also know that deep down, tucked in a place she doesn’t want to acknowledge, her feelings are a little more complicated. What comes out of her mouth doesn’t match her eyes. And her eyes tell me she wants me to bend her over the nearest table and show her what a real man feels like.

She might hate me. She might think I’m the biggest asshole she’s ever met. But she wants me. It’s there, simmering beneath the surface, an attraction she can’t suppress. I see it in the way her eyes flicker to my mouth when she thinks I’m not looking. I feel it in the slight shiver that runs through her body when my hands flex on her hips.

She might hate herself for it, but the sexual attraction is there, crackling between us like a live wire. If I was just some stranger she met at a bar, she’d be more than happy to let me take her home, to let me show her the kind of pleasure she’s only fantasized about.

My gaze drifts to her cleavage, to the tantalizing swell of her breasts. What a contrast to the buttoned-up, priest-approved pantsuits she usually hides behind at the office.

With every movement, her tits brush against my chest, her hardened nipples protesting beneath the flimsy fabric, begging to be freed, to be sucked and teased and pinched.

Fuck . . . seeing Gemma like this is doing dangerous things to my self-control.

I have strict rules about not fucking my employees. It’s a line I swore I’d never cross. Not just because it’s unprofessional, but because it complicates things.

But there’s something about seeing the typically prim, professional Miss Jones all dolled up that has my blood rushing south with alarming speed. The urge to say fuck it, to drag her somewhere private and act out a scene or two from that journal of hers . . . It’s almost overwhelming.

Gemma has curves in all the right places. With that long red hair and those big green eyes, she’s a knockout. I’ve trained myself not to notice because control is my strong point.

But right now? Right now, it’s slipping. My cock hardens against my trousers and I’m imagining dragging Gemma off this dance floor, pushing up that green silk, and burying my fat angry cock inside her.

I take a deep breath, forcing my gaze back to her face. But it’s too late. The flush staining her cheeks tells me she’s felt the evidence of my arousal pressing against her. How could she not? I’m so fucking hard it’s painful.

“Sorry,” I murmur, my voice rough.

I need a trip to the Athenæum. I need to let off some steam, and it’s starting to show in the most inappropriate of places with the most inappropriate of people.

“It’s fine,” she says, but I don’t miss the way her breath catches.

“I mean it; I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable,” I say. “You look stunning tonight. Let’s just say keeping my thoughts strictly professional is more challenging than usual.”

Her eyes widen, pupils dilating. Those full lips part slightly, and for a moment, I think she might give in.

But her mask of professionalism slides back into place. “Forget it,” she says sharply, as if she can erase the tension crackling between us with sheer force of will.

The song ends, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is the feel of her body against mine, the heat of her skin seeping through the thin fabric of her dress.

When she finally pulls back, I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to conceal the hard ridge of my cock tenting my trousers. But from the way her eyes flick down, then quickly back up, she’s as aware of it as I am.

“Let’s get a drink,” I suggest gruffly, needing to put some physical distance between us.

She follows wordlessly as I lead the way to the bar and order us drinks.

As the bartender sets our whiskies down, I stiffen at the sight of Harrington across the room, laughing it up with the Whitmores, patting each other on the back like old pals.

“They seem friendly,” Gemma observes neutrally, following my gaze.

I down half my drink in one go. “The older guy with them is Harrington’s old man. He and Whitmore go way back, all the way to their Oxbridge days. They’re all part of the same blue-blooded club.”

She looks up at me as I throw back the rest of my glass. “And you’re not in their club?”

“Not exactly. Sir Whitmore might like to play the benevolent lord, helping the poor and downtrodden, but he sure as hell doesn’t want the likes of me taking over his precious company.”

“You’re not exactly destitute, Liam.”

“Maybe not, but I’m not one of them either. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”

“But you and Alastair went to school together, right?”

“We may have attended the same institution,” I start, my grip tightening on my empty glass, “but believe me, Harrington and I come from very different worlds. He’s a spoiled little rich boy who’s never had to fight for a damn thing in his life.”

“Why is there so much animosity between you two?”

I exhale a rough sigh. “Let’s just say we didn’t see eye to eye.”

I’m not getting into this shit. Not here. Not with my employee. Even if it is Gemma, who’s usually got her head on straight.

“Wow, don’t kill yourself over-explaining,” she snarks. “Is that really all you’re going to give me?”

“Perhaps there’s nothing else I want my staff knowing about my personal life,” I reply, an edge creeping into my voice.

Her face tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “You want my help in landing this deal. Vertex is bidding too. You and Alastair have some deep-seated history, a personal vendetta. I can’t strategize effectively if I don’t understand the key players’ motivations. You need to loop me in on what went down between you two.”

My jaw clenches. She’s not wrong, as much as I hate to admit it.

“Let’s just say Alastair made it known to everyone at that boarding school who I was and where I belonged in the pecking order,” I grit out. “Which was firmly beneath the dirt on his overpriced loafers.”

Her eyes widen a fraction. “Because you weren’t born rich like the rest of them? What an elitist.”

“He had a whole host of reasons to make my life hell. Hated that I had the audacity to outscore him academically. That I kept wiping the floor with him on the rugby pitch. That I had the attention of all the pretty girls he wanted to nail.” I smirk, the memories fueling my resolve.

“Is that why you were flirting with his wife?” she asks, arching a knowing brow.

I stiffen. “I’ve known Vicky for years.”

Those green eyes search my face. “Did you . . . used to date her?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” I reply tightly, my tone conveying just how thrilled I am with this game of 20 Questions. “Now drop it. I mean it.”

I push off the bar, eyes locked on Alastair and his fan club. One way or another, I’m going to make Whitmore see that I’m the only man for this deal.

Seeing Harrington cozying up to Whitmore . . . it’s a reminder of the one area where that posh prick’s always had me beat—being liked.

But Alastair fucking Charles Harrington will not win this one. He thinks he’s got this deal locked down, that he can waltz in and charm everyone with his posh accent and his Oxford pedigree.

But TLS has been in my crosshairs for years, ever since I was a scrawny shit with no money to my name. I knew even back then that I wanted—no, needed—to get my hands on that company.

So Alastair might think he’s got this in the bag. But he’s underestimating me. And that’s going to be his biggest mistake. Because I’m not just determined to win this. I’m fucking obsessed. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make TLS mine.