Breaking the Billionaire's Rules

by Annika Martin

“A smile with no subtext is but a shape of the lips.”

“That kiss. So fake.” A defiant gleam appears in her eyes. “Who are you to say what’s fake?” I lower my voice to a deep register. “I’m the man who’s going to kiss you for real.”

“You would’ve pulled it off. You are glorious.”

“I love when you do that,” he says. “What, when I breathe?” I joke. “You need to get out more.” “I love when I touch you, and you try to act like it’s nothing.” “Are you calling me a bad actress?” “You’re a great actress—you know you are.” He pushes in deeper, rocking gently, in and out. “But when you secretly melt like that, you have no idea how sexy it is. It’s a gift,” he whispers. “Something only for me.”

“Max—” “What, baby? Anything.” He does me slowly, grinding against my pussy. “Anything.” He says the word in time with the roll of his hips. “Anything. Anything.” “Like that,” I say.

“I didn’t tell anybody. I was hurting, and it felt good to be cold and hard.”

“It wasn’t just that. I thought maybe it was never real—how we were in Oklahoma!” “It was real to me,” he says.

“I loved your accent. I loved your laugh. I would hunt for the Jerseygirl in your words. I would hunt for that girl.” “Nobody wanted that girl.” “I wanted that girl.”

And then everything falls away, and it’s just us, meeting in the music. The song is heartbreaking, and toward the middle it soars operatically.

More Max Hilton mockery, but she likes that I’ve built this. Mia loves competence. She always has.

“Undo me,” I whisper.

I lost the urge to do things for pleasure Until Mia.

love seeing her, that’s my first feeling. As fraught as we left things last night, I love seeing her.

He didn’t play like a robot because he feels nothing. He didn’t create the cold, careless Max Hilton persona because he feels nothing. He did those things because he feels too much.

“I love you.” “You do?” “Like I ever stopped,” I say. “Look at you.”

Somebody’s scrounged up an extra chair for her at our table. I’m a little disappointed; I would’ve preferred her on my lap.

I act like I’m mad, but how could I be? I wrestle her under me. “I’m planning on getting a lot of mileage out of this, I hope you know,” I say. And then I kiss her.

“They say cynics are just disillusioned idealists. You should know that writers of pickup books are just heartbroken romantics.”

“How’d you get in here?” “I'm Max freaking Hilton, baby.”