I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 110 - 111 Ashton’s POV: Give and Take

Chapter 110: Chapter 111 Ashton’s POV: Give and Take

The car wasn’t crowded at all.

Gino and Dominic had long since made themselves scarce.

Ashton sat with the takeaway bag beside him. He lowered the temperature in the car until the faint flush on Mirabelle’s cheeks subsided.

The windows had a tinted glaze to protect them from prying eyes.

Mirabelle removed a bottled water from the minifridge and drank.

‘Is this Carmen’s cooking?’ she asked, eyeing the box suspiciously.

‘Yes,’ he said absently. A few water droplets had dribbled down her chin. She was licking her lips.

She looked at him. ‘You really didn’t have to bring me lunch. There are plenty of places to eat around here. And it’s not exactly on your way.’

It wasn’t. Not even close. It was a forty-minute detour with traffic and a minor detonation of his schedule.

But Ashton hadn’t been thinking logically when he’d spotted her with Finn Carter. Logic had left the building the second he saw that man’s hands on her shoulders.

‘I happened to be nearby,’ he lied smoothly.

She shrugged. ‘Alright then.’ She consulted her phone. ‘It’s way past lunchtime. You’re probably hungry.’

‘Join me.’

‘But I’m not hungry.’

‘Just a bite. You know you love Carmen’s cooking.’

‘I do.’ She dug out a disposable fork. ‘Alright, just a bite.’

He opened the box.

Immediately, a wave of vegetable oil and fried onion smell wafted out.

Mirabelle winced, the fork hovering mid-air uncertainly.

‘This is Carmen’s cooking?’

Ashton mentally cursed the restaurant. The fries were glistening so much, he could see his reflection in them.

But one lie led to another, so he nodded. ‘Yes. Carmen wanted to try something different today. You know, switch it up a bit. She’s... experimenting.’

Mirabelle inched away from the food like it might jump out and stain her blouse. She set down her fork. ‘You go ahead.’

It was Ashton’s fork’s turn to hover.

‘I thought you were hungry,’ Mirabelle said.

With grim determination, Ashton picked up the plastic fork and speared a piece of chicken which looked marginally less oily than its companions.

It was appalling. Greasy, oversalted, vaguely spongy.

He chewed mechanically, swallowing with difficulty.

The silence stretched. Only the sounds of his tortured chewing filled the car.

Mirabelle watched him sympathetically. She handed him a bottle of iced water from the minifridge. ‘Here.’

He took a grateful swig.

‘You don’t have to eat it if you hate it so much,’ she said.

‘I don’t hate it. I’m just not used to it.’

‘You’d have to be a junk food addict to get used to it.’ Mirabelle glanced at her phone. ‘I should get back to the office.’

‘Wait.’ He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then took a breath mint.

‘What is it?’

‘I brought you lunch. Shouldn’t I get something in return?’

‘For a lunch I didn’t eat?’

‘It’s the thought that counts,’ he argued.

‘Fine. What do you want?’

He pretended to think about it. He already knew.

‘Kiss me.’

‘What?’

When she didn’t move, he sighed. ‘I bring you food, only to find you’ve already eaten—with another man. And now I’m here, starving, forcing down cold leftovers. But it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

‘No one asked you to bring me food,’ she murmured, sounding conflicted.

‘It’s alright,’ he said again, soft and martyred.

She hesitated.

Then, as if deciding to humour a particularly petulant child, she leaned forward to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

Except Ashton turned his head just before she landed.

Her lips grazed the corner of his mouth instead of his cheek.

He didn’t give her a chance to retreat.

He chased her down with a kiss of his own, firm, insistent, coaxing.

He caught her bottom lip between his, teasing it with a slow tug before tracing its curve with his tongue.

She tensed, startled. He felt the resistance in her shoulders, in the way her breath caught.

But then she gave in.

Ashton’s pulse surged, a low thrum in his throat and chest.

The car around them was dim, sunlight filtered through tinted windows, casting a faint golden haze.

Outside, the world carried on—horns honking, engines sputtering, the distant grind of brakes—but it all faded into nothing beneath the press of her lips.

She parted them slightly. Enough for him to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue past the seam of her mouth, slow and reverent, not demanding but utterly unrelenting.

The scent of her perfume mingled with the ghost of her lip gloss, now smeared across his own mouth.

Then she bit his lower lip.

Not hard. Just enough to shock him back into his body.

He froze, breath hitching. Was that anger? Reproach?

He was about to pull back, to apologise, but her arm slid behind his neck and pulled him in.

Her fingers tangled at the base of his hair. She kissed him again, deeper this time, without hesitation.

He tasted a trace of chocolate cake on her tongue.

Her mouth moved against his with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how he liked to be kissed, and had no interest in pretending otherwise.

It was familiar, practised, well-rehearsed.

But there was nothing tired about it.

Their mouths moved in sync, a rhythm built from their multiple rehearsals.

She kissed him until the lip gloss was entirely gone, until only heat and breath remained between them.

Then she pulled away.

Ashton sat there, dazed, lips tingling and heart pounding against the starched line of his shirt.

She met his eyes, amused and just a little smug. ‘Next time you want a kiss, just ask. You don’t have to torture yourself with sad excuses like that.’ She glanced pointedly at the takeaway container, still open.

Then she opened the door and slipped out of the car.

Ashton watched her disappear into the building.

Then he reached over, flipped the tray up, and dumped the entire offensive meal straight into the bin.

‘Worth it.’