Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 34

“Wearing a full-length bib covering my breasts isn’t exactly the epitome of sex appeal.” I giggle.

We’ve spent the last hour in this adorable seafood restaurant in Hamble, a quaint spot just up the coast from where we embarked on our regatta adventure. I wipe my hands on my napkin for the umpteenth time. The lobster grease on my bib makes me look like I’ve just gone a few rounds with a bottle of cooking oil. “I’m never ordering lobster again. All this work, and for what? A measly bit of fish from the leg? No thanks, I’ll stick to fish and chips from now on.”

“Lobster’s not technically fish. It’s meat from the leg.”

“Okay, mister smarty pants,” I huff. I dab at my bib with a napkin, which does precisely fuck-all to improve the situation.

I watch as he cuts into his steak, which he ordered with veggies and no sauce. “That must be an entire cow you’ve got there. And who eats steak without any sauce? That’s just wrong.”

He shrugs, popping a piece of plain, dry beef into his mouth. “I like to control what I put in my body. Not a fan of processed shit.”

No kidding. The man’s a machine when it comes to his diet. One glass of wine, max. Never more. Although he does seem to have a bit of a thing for whisky.

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s clearly working for you,” I mutter, eyeing his chest and shoulders as I try and fail to extract a pathetic scrap of meat from my lobster leg.

Liam grins at me. “Here, give me your plate.”

My eyes widen. “You are a big eater. No wonder you’re built like a tank.” I mean, the man’s already devoured his lobster and half his steak like it was a light snack. “Should I just ask the waiter to bring you a trough?”

He rolls his eyes, the picture of exasperation. “I’m not going to eat yours, you cheeky minx.”

I hand over the plate, watching as Liam takes the weird lobster fork thingies and starts working on the crustacean carcass. “I’m impressed. Is there anything you’re not good at?”

He slides the fork in with a fluid, practiced motion. “Slide it in smoothly, right along the shell, then give it a twist and pull. Nice and easy. See?”

I bite my lip, smirking. “When you say it in that authoritative tone, it gives me flashbacks to the office.”

He hands me back my plate, his expression stern but his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned anything from my lesson. If you haven’t, I’ll be forced to administer a thorough reprimand. And trust me, it won’t involve a slap on the wrist.”

I’m not mad about this fusion of banker and fisherman. Not at all.

I position the fork just like he demonstrated, sliding it in smooth and slow along the shell, my tongue poking out in concentration. I give it a twist and yank, holding my breath . . .

And the lobster meat goes flying, smacking Liam right in his handsome face.

“Ahhh! I’m so sorry.” I gasp, dissolving into laughter as I reach out to wipe his cheek.

He plucks the errant chunk of meat from his face and pops it into his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the residue from my fingers. It’s primal, like I’m watching a caveman.

A roar of laughter erupts from the next table, the sound so different from the sounds of the posh London establishments we frequent for work events. It’s a breath of fresh sea air, reminding me that there’s a whole world outside the corporate bubble we live in. I feel like I’m on holiday, even though we’re barely an hour outside the city.

When Liam picked me up after work, I expected him to roll up in some flashy sports car, like the black Aston Martin he favors for work. But instead, he surprised me by showing up in a Land Rover. Okay, it’s not exactly a Skoda, but still, it had sailing and fishing paraphernalia shoved in the back seat, and it was actually (gasp) a little dirty. Except for my seat, which was gleaming. It felt weirdly sweet.

I’m definitely dealing with fisherman Liam tonight, and it’s giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest. Concerning, because that feeling is dangerously close to fondness, and fondness is not something I’m supposed to have for Liam McLaren. Lust? Sure, I’ve got that in spades. Hatred? Oh, absolutely. But fondness? That’s unchartered territory.

Ever since I read his background profile, it’s like I’m seeing him in a whole new light. Which is probably delusional and a surefire sign that I’m setting myself up for a world of hurt. But I can’t help it.

And tonight, he’s being lighter than his usual grumpy self, cracking jokes and smiling like a real human being. Maybe the sea air changes the man. I guess he kept his promise on bringing fisherman Liam.

“Okay, I have a question for you,” I say, pivoting to a safer topic. “How’d you get into sailing? Did you just wake up one day and think, ‘Damn, I’d look good in canary yellow trousers’? Because let me tell you, not many men can pull off that particular style.”

He takes a sip of his beer, chuckling. It’s a nice sound. “University. My mate Edward Cavendish got me into it. You remember him from the regatta?”

“The hot surgeon?” I nod, picturing the man I’d seen with Liam. Handsome attracts handsome. And rich attracts rich, apparently.

A smirk tugs at Liam’s lips. “Most ladies agree with you. I’ll only agree with the surgeon part but that’s the one. I used to go to the coast most weekends at uni.”

I take a sip of my wine, trying to keep my face neutral. “You didn’t head back to Yorkshire on the weekends?” I ask. “To see your mum and stepdad?”

He shrugs, his fork stabbing into his vegetables with a little more force than necessary. “Not really.”

“Liam,” I start, my heart in my throat. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He looks up as he cuts his steak.

“The IT team came back with the background checks. On all of us.”

“Yeah? And?”

I bite my lip. “They ran one on you too.”

His jaw clenches, his grip on his fork tightening. “On me? That wasn’t the brief I gave.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You can rake me over the coals on Monday, but please, not here.”

He looks like he’s about two seconds away from reprimanding me, but he takes a breath, reins it in. “Fine.”

“Technically, they did what they were supposed to. You have access to those files too. Anyway . . . I read a bit about your background.”

His brow lifts just an inch. “Find anything interesting?”

“Why didn’t you tell me your mom worked for TLS for ten years?”

Something flashes in his eyes—anger, hurt, resentment. It’s hard to tell with Liam.

“It’s not exactly relevant,” he says, his tone clipped.

“Isn’t it, though?” I press gently. “She got laid off from the very company you’re hell-bent on acquiring. That seems pretty relevant to me.”

He sets down his fork. “You want to know what it means? It means I know exactly what Whitmore and his cronies are really like. He can talk a big game about corporate responsibility and employee welfare, but when push comes to shove? His company isn’t nearly as generous as it pretends to be. The severance they gave my mom was a fucking joke. And when she went there begging and crying for her job, saying she couldn’t afford to feed her family, they called security. Had her escorted out like some kind of criminal.”

Holy shit.

“Liam, I’m so sorry.” I pause, a thought occurring to me. “Does Sir Whitmore know about this?”

“Of course he doesn’t. And he’s not going to. It’s ancient history. Water under the bridge. I’m not exactly hurting for cash these days, so don’t waste your pity on me. But do me a favor and delete that file, okay? ASAP.”

I nod, treading carefully. “Did things get better when your mum married your stepdad? I mean, he was wealthy, right? And you went to that fancy boarding school.”

Liam’s laugh is humorless. “In a way. At first, it was great. He’d show up at our shitty little council flat in his flashy Porsche, acting like Father fucking Christmas with all the gifts he’d bring. Took us to the footy to pretend we were men. But then they got married, and he changed. Turned into a right bastard.” Liam shakes his head, a bitter twist to his mouth. “Shipped me and Patrick off to boarding school first chance he got.”

It’s ironic hearing Liam call someone a bastard when that’s exactly what he’s called at work. Often by me. Usually under my breath, but still. I keep that thought to myself, though.

“I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “That must have been really hard, being sent away. Did your mum . . . not try to stop it?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “She was too scared to rock the boat. Can’t blame her. He gave her stability, at least financially. Anyway, it wasn’t all bad. I had Patrick.”

“Are you two close now?” I ask. I picture mini Liam and his brother plotting world domination from their dorms.

“Yeah.” Another shrug. His default response to emotions, I think. “We don’t get to see each other much now he’s focusing on his hotel in the Scottish Outer Hebrides. But we make sure we do Christmas together.”

“Two business big shots in the family. Your mum must be bursting with pride,” I say, trying to replace a silver lining.

“You’d have to ask her.”

I lean over to put my hand over his arm. He stiffens slightly.

I bite my lip, fighting the urge to climb into his lap and hug him until all that hurt melts away. But something tells me Liam wouldn’t appreciate that, at least not here, not now. So instead, I attempt to lighten the mood. “Well, I guess that explains why you’re such a git sometimes. Childhood trauma will do that to a person.”

Liam freezes, fork hovering in midair. For a heart-stopping second, I think I’ve royally screwed up. But then . . . he laughs. A genuine laugh that seems to come from deep in his chest.

“A git, huh?” His eyes sparkle with amusement. Actually sparkle. I didn’t think Liam’s eyes could do anything but smolder or glare. “That’s a new one for you. Less verbose than your usual insults. But I appreciate the efficiency.”

I giggle, the wine making me feel warm and loose. “Gotta keep you on your toes. Keep things fresh,” I tease, taking another sip. A thought bubbles up, and my wine-loosened tongue lets it fly. “You know, I think I get why you respect Skipper Magee so much now.”

Liam quirks an eyebrow, silently urging me to continue.

“He’s like . . . the anti-stepfather, isn’t he? A salt of the earth older guy who isn’t throwing around hundred-thousand-pound Rolex watches. A real father figure.”

He chuckles but there’s an edge to it. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“Not even close. But I think you’re wrong about one thing—this whole compartmentalization act you’ve got going on. I think your worlds need to be integrated, not kept apart. You can be the big bad CEO and still have a heart. Ruthless when needed, but also caring. Protective of the people who matter.” I say this with all the confidence of someone who’s just buzzed enough to think they’re suddenly a relationship guru.

“You’re assuming I have lots of people who matter,” he says gruffly.

My heart twists at that. It’s not like I have people lining up for me either, but I’ve got a good relationship with my family, even if I’m an only child. I’m close with my cousins, and I have Lizzie. And despite work getting in the way, I’ve kept in touch with school friends.

“Liam,” I sigh, feeling brave or stupid enough to push. “About the Alastair feud, the TLS takeover . . .You might be happier if you let this stuff go.”

He takes a pull on his beer. “Thought you wanted fisherman Liam this weekend,” he says, his tone a clear warning.

“Fair enough. No more work talk.” I stab another piece of lobster, determined to get some of it into my mouth without making a mess.

As I watch Liam’s jaw clench for the umpteenth time, it hits me. Maybe he’s someone who doesn’t know how to be playful and silly. Maybe he never learned how. He’s a lot of things, but “playful” isn’t anywhere near the top of that list. This is a man who was sent off to boarding school at six, who missed out on so much of his childhood.

The closest Liam comes to relaxation and having fun is going to war with the ocean, pitting himself against something powerful and untamable.

I make an executive decision. This weekend is going to be all about fun. No shop talk, no brooding alpha males stomping around the boat. I’m putting my foot down.

Operation “Make Liam Playful” is officially a go.

“All right, new question,” I say, leaning forward with a grin. “When you’re old and gray, who do you see yourself as? Hugh Hefner, Elon Musk, or Skipper Magee?”

He blinks at me, amused and in disbelief. “Are those really the only three options you’re giving me?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “Playboy, workaholic, or crusty old sea dog. To reflect all the Liams. Which is it?”

He rolls his eyes but I catch the hint of a smile. “Fine. Skipper Magee.”

“I can see that! But maybe keep washing your feet? The skipper seems to have given up on that front.” I wrinkle my nose, the memory of that smell still haunting.

“Can’t smell anything when you’re out there in the sea air. Just the glorious sea.”

“Bull. Shit. They smelled so bad there should have been a maritime distress signal for any vessels within a ten-nautical-mile radius.”

Liam laughs as I try for another bite of lobster. It skids across my chin, leaving a trail of butter in its wake. I probably look like I’ve been making out with a stick of butter. “Good lord. Between this bib and you cutting up my food, I feel like I’m back in nursery.”

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “For what it’s worth, you look sexy as hell to me. Bib and all.”

I blush and take a hasty sip of wine to cover my sudden bout of bashfulness. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Should I be worried? Are you feeling okay? Blink if you’re having a stroke.”

“I say plenty of nice things about you, Gemma. I think a lot of nice things, too.”

“Oh yeah. What are you thinking now?”

His gaze turns molten, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “All the places on my boat where I can fuck you senseless. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

I promptly choke on my wine. “Wow, Liam, warn a girl before you drop a line like that.”

“I’m just being honest. It’s refreshing now we’re both being honest with each other.”

“Yes, it is,” I manage to say, my voice only slightly strangled.

“So . . .” He leans in, his thumb brushing my cheek. For a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he pulls back, a smear of butter on his finger. My heart does a stutter-step as he licks it clean, eyes never leaving mine. “What will you write in your diary about tonight?”

“That I’m having a really nice date.” And I don’t want it to end. If this is what being a fisherman’s wife is like, sign me up.

But I keep that last part to myself.

Liam manhandles me onto the boat like I’m a sack of potatoes—a drunk, giggly sack of potatoes. A laugh explodes out of me, a chaotic mix of terror, adrenaline, and at least 12 percent rum, give or take.

“Aye aye, Captain,” I slur, the words tumbling out between giggles.

We’ve just stumbled out of a pub called The Dirty Hen. Probably a cheeky play on words because “The Dirty Cock” was taking things too far, even for sailors.

“Can we do the Titanic scene? You know, where Jack gets behind Rose and does the whole king-of-the-world thing?” I ask, making a heroic dash toward the bow of the boat, arms outstretched like I’m about to take flight.

“Gemma.” Liam glares at me. “No running on the boat.”

“How are you gonna stop me?” I tease, my hands catching the mast as I swing around it with a playful twist.

He strides toward me with the determination of someone who’s had enough of my nonsense for one evening. But I’m too quick, ducking out of his way with a triumphant cackle.

“Gemma,” he says again, his tone promising all sorts of delicious punishments if he catches me.

And catch me he does, his large hands grabbing me by the hips and yanking me against his rock-hard body with a force that knocks the breath out of me. Holy mother of seafood, I can practically feel his heart pounding through his clothes. Or maybe it’s just my own.

“I caught you,” he growls, his breath hot against my ear, sending shivers through me. “Now I can do whatever I want with you.”

My body trembles with anticipation. “Do your worst, captain.”

His arousal presses against me as he kisses me hard, all dominance and raw need. He slides a hand over my breast, squeezing possessively as if to prove a point.

I give in completely, kissing him back with everything I’ve got.

What am I doing? We’re out here on the bloody deck, where anyone could catch an eyeful of this R-rated nautical show.

“Liam,” I gasp out between kisses. “Someone might see.”

And by “someone,” I mean literally anyone with eyes on the dock and the misfortune of looking in our direction.

But my clit is already throbbing. I need to have sex, like, two hours ago.

“Let them,” he breathes against my lips. “Fucking get on top of me. Now. I can’t wait any longer.”

He walks us backward until he hits the bench. Without another word, he pulls me onto his lap in one fluid motion.

I sink down on top of him, every rational thought in my mind dissolving as pure arousal takes over.

He lifts me up, just enough so that he can fumble with his jeans zipper, his movements urgent. The metallic rasp of his fly echoes in the night air, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he shoves his boxers down. Sitting on that cold bench must be absolute torture on his bare ass, but I’m far too turned on to care now his cock is free.

His hands are back on my hips in an instant. He slides his rough palms up my thighs, the callouses on his fingers from handling ropes catching on my skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. His fingers replace the lace of my panties, and with a swift, almost impatient motion, he pushes them to the side. The sudden exposure makes me shiver.

The head of his cock slides along my slit, teasing me.

I grip his shoulders tightly, my breath catching in ragged gasps.

“Liam,” I whimper, grinding against him, seeking more friction. “Please.”

He pushes his throbbing cock inside me and I let out a cry, half pain, half pleasure. Gasping at the fullness. And the fact that we’re having sex on the deck of a boat, where anyone from the pub could see us if they walked by.

“We shouldn’t . . .” I try to protest as I spot people over the other side of the port, but he cuts off my words with another deep thrust.

“Can’t stop, baby,” he groans, taking control of my hips and grinding me up and down on him. I ride him over and over again, relishing the sensation as he owns me.

I’m too far gone now. I don’t care if the whole harbor witnesses us; all I want is to come on his cock.

“Gemma,” he growls, his voice low and ragged with need. “Don’t hold back. Show me how you want to fuck. Take control.”

I don’t even bother with a response, just sink down onto him in one smooth, agonizingly pleasurable motion. The stretch and fullness of him inside me makes me whimper, my nails digging into his skin as I start to move.

The cold metal of the bench presses into my shins but I barely feel it. All that matters is the way Liam’s hands are gripping my hips, guiding my movements as I ride him.

“Yes.” He looks up, his eyes dilated, hooded, cheeks flushed, almost boyish. “Fuck, yes, yes. Keep going, baby. Keep rocking like that. Jesus, this feels unbelievable.”

“Oh god, I’m going to scream.”

Liam puts a hand over my mouth. “Come for me. I want to see your beautiful face come. Come all over my cock.”

I do as I’m told, my body shuddering around him as he empties every last bit of his come inside me.