I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 96 - 97 Ashton’s POV: Hot, Cold, Hot

Chapter 96: Chapter 97 Ashton’s POV: Hot, Cold, Hot

Ashton was about to explode.

His skin ran cooler than hers—that was the whole reason she’d latched onto him in the first place.

But the coolness didn’t last long.

The moment her lips brushed his skin, heat punched through his core like a flare. His chest tightened, ribs compressing like his lungs had shrunk.

She was doing unspeakable things to his shirt, tugging and clawing at the fabric with the same feverish impatience she’d shown that night at the hotel.

Apparently, she had a habit of tearing buttons off when she didn’t feel like undoing them one by one.

His throat was dry as sand. Forming words was a challenge he had no time for.

At first, he’d tried to behave.

She was feverish. Burning up. Maybe even delirious.

Someone had to be the adult in the room.

But it was getting harder by the second.

Every time she whimpered in that breathy, unsatisfied way when he edged away, every time her mouth ghosted over his chest or her cheek dragged across his stomach, another bolt of heat tore through him.

Her breath hit his skin—wet, warm, careless—and he nearly flinched.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He kept his arms locked around her like a brace, holding himself several decent inches away.

Then her nose bumped his belt. Her cheek landed squarely against the swollen bulge straining in his trousers.

Ashton swore under his breath.

He caught her face in both hands and gently, firmly, pushed it away.

He shifted, angling himself so that the tent in his pants wasn’t aiming straight at her flushed, inquisitive face.

But she kept coming. Ripping through fabric like it offended her.

He nearly gave in.

His eyes darted to the door, back to her fevered cheeks, then to the door again.

‘Fuck.’

He pried her off, untangling her octopus limbs, and stood up to grab the ice packs from the medical cart.

The cold hit his fingers first—blessed, numbing relief. He pressed a pack to her skin.

It worked. Gradually, she quieted. Her limbs stilled. Her breathing slowed.

His didn’t.

He pushed air through his nose, slow and shallow, trying to quash the fire crawling up his spine.

Trying not to stare at the loose gown slipping off her shoulder, revealing smooth, bare skin and the soft curve of her back.

She was sick. She didn’t know what she was doing.

He didn’t have that excuse.

Still, his body had turned traitor. Heat poured off him, sweat gathering under his collar. It felt like he was getting a fever of his own.

She noticed first. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused. She made a small, irritated sound and shoved at his chest with both hands.

‘Hot. Go away.’

She rolled to the edge of the bed, kicking off the covers.

He reached out before she could fall. ‘Careful.’

His hand wrapped around her waist and hauled her back, anchoring her against his side.

She kept squirming, arms and legs flailing in slow motion, fists thumping against his ribs.

Her face scrunched, eyes pinched shut, mouth drawn into a pout. She smacked at him like a sulky toddler.

None of it hurt. She didn’t have the strength for that.

He sighed and let her go.

Standing, he replaced the melting ice pack on her forehead with a fresh one, then pointed the infrared thermometer at her temple.

The reading blinked back at him—her fever was starting to drop.

Her face crumpled with irritation every time he tried to get close. If he sat on the edge of the bed or reached for her hand, she jerked or rolled away.

Now that she had the real ice packs, it seemed she no longer needed the human-sized one.

Ashton left the room, easing the door shut behind him.

He crossed the suite, went straight for the windows, shoved them all open.

Cold air crashed into the room. Wind tore through his hair and slapped against his bare skin, reminding him just how shirtless he was.

He pulled out his phone and dialled Dominic Everett.

‘Dig up everything you can on Isobel Brooke,’ he said as soon as the line picked up. ‘Back to her school days. Bullying, assault—whatever she’s got buried, I want it. Find the proof. Find the people. And lean on the Brooke family’s businesses. Quiet pressure. Make them sweat.’

It was past two in the morning, but Dominic sounded wide awake and alert.

‘Got it, boss. I’ll start now.’

‘Where’s Quentin Laurent working?’

‘Admin at Laurent Logistics Management. Desk job.’

‘Transfer him.’

‘Where to?’

‘Ulaanbaatar.’

A pause, then: ‘Understood. We’ve got a system implementation project there. He’ll oversee it. Timeline’s three years.’

‘Don’t let him set foot back here till it’s done.’

‘Copy that.’

‘Franklin Vance is still trying to bid on our Midtown project?’

‘Yes.’

‘Blacklist him. And tip off a tax auditor while you’re at it.’

‘Understood.’

‘Wake Geoffrey. Tell him to pack a change of clothes and my shaving kit. Get Gino to deliver them to St Jude’s Metropolitan, Director’s Wing.’

‘Right away.’

Ashton paused, recollecting. ‘There’s a girl. Freya Laurent. Find out if her parents are on our payroll. If they are, get HR to review their files. I want them to have a promotion. And bonuses. Make it generous.’

Freya’s video had exposed Isobel. Without it, things would have taken longer.

He would’ve promoted Freya herself, but she was six. Not quite hireable yet.

Ashton ended the call.

Wind howled through the open windows. He stayed put, eyes fixed on the city beyond the glass, cold air whipping through his hair, over his chest, slicing into him down to the bone.

Didn’t help.

His body still burned.

He pulled a cigarette from the pack, turned it over in his fingers, held it up.

His gaze flicked back to the closed door behind which Mirabelle slept.

Ashton shoved the lighter back in his pocket. He lifted the cigarette to his nose and inhaled. Tobacco. Stale sweetness. The sting bit at the back of his throat.

His chest stopped burning.

He stood there until the pressure in his groin finally subsided. Until the sweat cooled. Until he could be in the same room with her again without risking anything.

Then he turned and went back in.

She was still asleep. Barely. The blanket had twisted around her legs, one foot dangling out from beneath the mess. Her breathing was uneven, shallow, chest rising in fits.

He knelt beside the bed and touched her forehead.

She leaned into his palm before her eyes even opened, her voice muffled in the pillow. ‘Come here.’

He climbed in beside her and pulled her against his chest.

She shifted instinctively, nose nestling against his collarbone.

She was in a paper-thin hospital gown. He was still shirtless.

He’d thought the cold air and the cigarette had fixed the problem. But the moment her nipples brushed against his chest through the fabric, his entire body snapped to attention.

‘Fuck,’ he muttered. Cursing himself. Cursing his usually faultless restraint.

Oblivious, Mirabelle burrowed closer, soft breasts squashed fully against his bare skin.

This time, it was his turn to squirm. ‘Mira...’

She let out a drowsy whine when he tried to shift away.

He rotated his lower half in the opposite direction, hips awkwardly angled away from her, while his arms stayed locked around her shoulders.

He was twisting himself into a human pretzel. But he wasn’t letting go.

Five minutes passed.

Then she started wriggling again. Her brow scrunched. ‘Too hot.’

She rolled away.

Ashton got up and escaped into the en suite. The shower blasted cold. Ten minutes under the icy spray cooled his skin, but not enough.

Because the second he returned to bed, she rolled straight into him again.

He exhaled slowly, swiped his phone from the nightstand, and typed out a message.

[Tell Geoffrey to pack several more changes of clothes. And underwear.]