The Billionaire's Touch Is My Antidote

The heavy door of the Neon Club resisted Gwendolyn Morrison's push, the muffled thud of the bass vibrating through the wood and into her bones. She leaned her weight into it, the hinges groaning in protest before finally giving way.

A wall of sound hit her. A physical force of deep, pulsing bass that hammered against her chest, making it hard to breathe. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, spilled liquor, and a dozen competing perfumes.

Gwen squeezed her eyes shut for a second, rubbing her temples. The dull ache that had been building behind her eyes for the last seventy-two hours of tax season preparations sharpened into a piercing throb. She had spent three straight days staring at spreadsheets, the numbers blurring into a meaningless dance. Two quick shots of tequila at the bar next door had seemed like a good idea to take the edge off. Now, they were just making the room spin.

The floor seemed to tilt beneath her four-inch heels. She stumbled, her ankle twisting painfully. Her hand shot out, her palm slapping against the cold, damp brick of the corridor wall to steady herself. She took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting the wave of nausea that churned in her stomach. She just needed to find Ivan. He'd promised he'd be here, waiting for her. He would hold her, tell her it was all worth it, and the world would stop spinning.

Through the strobing, colored lights, she scanned the crowded booths. Her vision swam, blurring the faces into grotesque masks. Then she saw him. Or, she thought she did. At the far end of the corridor, in a secluded VIP booth, sat a man with his back to her. The custom-tailored black suit, the broad shoulders-it looked just like the one Ivan had splurged on, the one he wore when he wanted to impress potential investors.

A surge of weary relief washed over her. He was here. He was waiting.

With a fresh wave of alcohol-fueled determination, she pushed off the wall and started towards the booth. Each step was a precarious balancing act. The exhaustion, the tequila, the overwhelming need for comfort-it all coalesced into a single, desperate impulse.

She didn't call his name. She didn't want to break the spell. She just wanted to feel his arms around her.

She reached the booth and, without a second thought, threw her arms around the man's waist, pressing her cheek against the hard muscle of his back. The fabric of his suit was smoother, more expensive than she remembered Ivan's being.

Her nose filled with a scent that wasn't right. It wasn't Ivan's cheap, cloying cologne. This was something else entirely. Cold, sharp, and clean, like cedarwood after a winter storm, layered with the faint, expensive scent of tobacco.

The body beneath her hands went rigid. Every muscle tensed, hard as stone.

Before she could process the mistake, the man spun around in his seat. A large, powerful hand shot out and clamped around her jaw, the grip like a steel vise. Her head was jerked upward, forcing her to meet his eyes.

They weren't Ivan's warm, brown eyes. These were the color of a frozen lake, deep and piercing and utterly devoid of warmth. They sliced through the alcoholic haze in her mind, a jolt of pure, cold shock. He stared down at her, this beautiful, terrifying stranger, a flicker of something dark and amused in his gaze as he took in her disheveled state.

The tequila made its final, disastrous decision for her. Logic fled. All that remained was a raw, aching need. She rose onto her tiptoes, her body moving on its own accord, and pressed her lips against his.

His lips were thin and cool, unyielding. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his eyes, which had widened in surprise, narrowed into dangerous slits. Behind him, a mountain of a man in a dark suit-a bodyguard, she vaguely registered-took a step forward, his hand moving inside his jacket. But the man in the chair simply raised a single, dismissive finger, and the bodyguard froze.

Gwen closed her eyes, pressing herself closer, deepening the kiss. And then the strangest thing happened. Nothing. The usual wave of panic, the cold sweat, the desperate urge to claw her own skin off-the hallmarks of her crippling haphephobia-didn't come. There was only the press of his lips, the scent of cedar, the solidness of his body against hers. It was a miracle.

Then, his mouth moved against hers. It was no longer a passive acceptance. His other hand came up, fingers tangling in her hair, gripping the back of her head to hold her in place. He took control of the kiss, his mouth hard and demanding, a punishment and a claiming all at once. He was stealing the air from her lungs, and she was letting him.

A sharp crash echoed from down the hallway-the sound of a glass shattering on the floor. It broke the spell.

Gwen's eyes flew open. She shoved against his chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The face looming over her was not a stranger's. It was a face she'd seen on the cover of Forbes, on Bloomberg News. Kingston Crawford. The wolf of Wall Street. A predator.

A strangled sound escaped her throat. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, her mind reeling. She didn't apologize. She couldn't. She just grabbed her purse from where it had fallen, turned, and ran.

Her heels clicked frantically on the polished concrete floor as she fled, not looking back. She could feel his icy gaze on her, a physical weight against her skin. She needed to find Ivan. She needed the world to make sense again.

She scrambled up the stairs to the second-floor VIP area, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. V8. That was the booth number Ivan had texted her. She saw the brass plate on the door, which was slightly ajar.

"Ivan?" she called out, her voice thin and shaky as she pushed the door open.

The word died in her throat.

In the dim, pulsating light of the private booth, Ivan was there. But he wasn't alone. He had a woman pinned against the plush leather sofa, his hands tangled in her red slip dress, his mouth devouring hers.

The strobing lights swept across the woman's face. Gwen's entire world fractured. It was Blair. Her best friend of ten years. Her maid of honor.

Gwen's fingers dug into the doorframe, the wood biting into her skin. Her nails turned white from the pressure. A tremor started in her hands and spread through her entire body. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move.

Then she heard Ivan's voice, thick and breathless. "Just wait," he panted against Blair's lips. "Once I gift-wrap Gwen for that big shot at Crawford's firm, my seed funding is a done deal."

Blair let out a breathy laugh, her hands sliding down his back. "You're terrible. But can she even handle a man like that? With her... you know. Her little problem about not being touched."

The nausea Gwen had been fighting all night came roaring back, hot and acidic. It wasn't just tequila. It was betrayal. It was the sickening realization that her entire life was a lie.

She shoved the door open. It slammed against the inside wall with a deafening crack.

The two on the sofa sprang apart, their faces a comical mask of shock and guilt. Ivan fumbled with his pants, his face draining of all color as he stared at her.

Gwen's gaze was cold, empty. The tears she thought would come had been burned away by a white-hot rage. She looked at Ivan, then at Blair, the two people she had trusted most in the world.

Slowly, deliberately, she pulled the cheap silver ring from her left hand. The one Ivan had given her six months ago, promising it was just a placeholder for the real thing.

She didn't say a word. She just walked forward and threw it. The ring arced through the air, striking Ivan squarely on the cheek with a soft thud.

Then she turned her back on the wreckage of her life and walked out.