Xander (Billionaire Racers Book 1) by Anne Marsh Page A

Her choice of roommates clearly does not thrill her, but she married me. She came here. And she is the one who wants something from me. It is not my business if she has regrets—she is an opportunity I will not pass up. Besides, I enjoy pissing her off. Her anger heats up her eyes, melting the cold reserve. My dick hardens as if she is my own personal trophy.
    I practically see her take a mental step backward. She stands there, feet planted on my dock, and goes for the small talk. Since her shit now resides in my cabin, I bet I get her too. She just needs to talk herself into it, and this is how she has decided to do it.
    “You run in this race every year?”
    She asks. I answer. I can play this game too. I vault over the safety line and land on the deck next to her. The mountain will come to Mohammed.
    “It depends.” Change and challenge. Those are my two mantras. This should come as no surprise to anyone who has spent more than two minutes in my company. Repetition is for losers, and anchoring in one place or re-running the same courses is not for me. Once I get the Koa out into open water, the wind and the waves fight me until I find a groove. Succeed or fail. You can dress racing up with yacht clubs, rule books, and trophies, but the fundamentals are the one constant. Haul ass, fly across that water, and the best man crosses the finish line first. I am sure it comes as no surprise to you that I rarely lose.
    Lily smiles. I have no idea what is lighting her up, but she has a Mona Lisa smile that gives me ideas. Strip her down, get her bare, fuck her hard—and see if she still gives me that sidelong smirk when I have been deep inside her and she is still feeling me. Da . I know that it is rude and all shades of wrong, but it is also honest. Deal with it. I left her alone when she was sixteen, and I will not touch her now unless she asks me to. I cannot be fairer than that.
    She slants a look at me, but her sunglasses prevent me from seeing her eyes. At sixteen, her eyes crinkled up at the corners when she smiled. It was goddamned cute, so I reach over and ease her sex kitten glasses up with my finger. Slowly. Her eyes widen, and she catches my wrist with her hand. As if she can stop me. I shove the glasses onto the top of her head.
    Lily has gorgeous eyes even if they veer between wary and plenty pissed off. I am a dick because her inability to ignore me makes me happy. I am more than a convenient ride or a get-out-of-jail-free card. I am her husband, and we both know that means something. Not as much as it will mean when we finish this race, but there is still that something between us right now even if it is mostly sexual chemistry. I know precisely how the main mast feels when the sea air hits the mast hard, swelling the sheet with impossible tension.
    So fuck it. I cup the back of her head with one hand and set the other on her waist, and then I kiss the ever-loving fuck out of her. Paparazzi fill the dock and billionaires gossip just as much as normal people. All of Miami will know about our relationship by the time this race starts.
    Lily is not onboard with my kissing her. She bites me. Christ, I like that too. She could chew me up, and I suspect I would still be hers. This is a problem, but I can fix it. Either I get over her, or I convince her to be my wife for real. Since that needs more time than a handful of minutes on a dock, I back up. I give her space. Instead of kissing her again, I just grin at her.
    She shakes her head. “We need to discuss personal space.”
    Not a fucking chance unless she has a move-in plan she wants me to vet. I do not need to look closely to see the neon No trespassing sign she just posted. Our kiss is not over even if we have two feet of empty space between us. This is because I do not know how to be done with her. My Lily is a straight shooter. She would never play the kind of games that seduce a single woman onto a man’s yacht for some weekend fun. Whatever games Lily plays