Free Shopping for a Billionaire 3 by Julia Kent Page A

seen him naked. Never even seen him shirtless. My breath comes in sudden halts as it hits me that I’m really here. Mr. Grey Suit is in front of me in an intimate, romantic setting he created for me, and this is my real life.
    He unbuttons the cuffs of his shi r t and rolls them up. I’m hypnotized. I can’t stop watching as his deft fingers go through the motions like a performance, his eyes tilted down and watching what he’s doing, making himself comfortable.
    He’s spent so much time thinking about my comfort. Focused on me. My eyes eat him up, enjoying not just the view but the intimacy of this moment. So simple. So ordinary. Just a man on a date in a new relationship, rolling up his sleeves after a long day at the office, waiting to sink into a lovely dinner and some nice sexy time.
    Except he’s flow n across countless time zones, interrupted my pseudo-date with my ignorant ex, had his way with me in a limo, flown me in a helicopter to a remote island, and now he has me (voluntarily) trapped on a remote island where anything could happen.
    So not ordinary.
    “ Enjoying yourself?” His voice is warm milk and burnt sugar and rum-soaked ladyfingers with hot fudge sauce and an invitation to spend a weekend on Martha’s Vineyard on the beach without clothes or other people.  
    “I really like what I see.” It helps that I just felt his abs underneath me and they roll like B en W a balls, sleek, sexy and hypnotically solid.
    “Me, too.” He reaches for my hand and takes a long, slow sip of his wine. My own gulp earlier is kicking in, loosening me, making me want to run my legs against silk sheets and the soft strands of his leg hair, imagining his naked body and his own happy trail leading down…
    I don’t have to imagine it, though, do I? I’m about to live it.
    Without comment or affect, Declan lifts the covers off our plates, revealing lobster and steak. “I hope you’re not allergic to shellfish,” he says dryly.
    “No, thank God. I love lobster.” We smile at each other, and something’s different. I face it head on.
    “Speaking of allergies, thank you. I didn’t know about your brother.”
    “Of course you didn’t. But now you do.” He picks up his sil v erware with hands that are steady. Mine are shaking like a four-year-old with a pogo stick on Christmas morning.
    “Good for me, then, that you came prepared.”
    He pauses mid-bite. “Yes,” is all he says, then continues eating. The lights a b ove us go round and round, giving the room a hypnotic glow.
    “How does Andrew handle it?” I take a bite and let my words hang there. Declan’s quiet, finishing his food, and I get the sense that he doesn’t want to talk about this, but I do. There’s no way I’m going to act like it never happened.
    “Handle being so allergic?”
    “No, handle being the Green Lantern.”
    He smiles. “Touch é . Okay, he handles it by carefully orchestrating a life where he’s never near a wasp .”
    I laugh. Declan pours another glass of wine for me. I nod my thanks and he sets the bottle down, conspicuously not filling his own glass.
    “Impossible.”
    His eyebrows go up in mirth. “No, it’s quite possible. He has drivers who meet him in underground parking garages, flies only at night in the cooler temperatures for that twenty-foot walk on private tarmacs to the company jet, and exercises indoors.”
    “He must be paler than a vampire.” Then again, so’s my belly. It hasn’t seen sunlight since Kristen Stewart smiled.  
    “Tanning booths and vitamin D supplements cover that.”
    I’m chewing a glorious piece of lobster as his words sink in. “You’re joking.”
    He swallows his own bite and finishes his wine. “I’m completely serious. I t’s how he copes.”
    I’m stunned. The allergists over the years have cautioned me to take measures that reduce my risk, but no one’s ever suggested such extremes. “Were his stings that bad?”
    “ H e’s only been stung once.”
    “ O