Page 49 of Fixer for the Billionaire

And I definitely know what she sounds like when she's coming into my mouth.

I French-kiss the length of her swollen clit, letting one finger and then two curl inside of her. And she explodes.

Her grip on my hair tightens until my roots ache, and still, I don't stop. I keep tugging, licking, sucking, swirling until finally Carmina's body slumps onto the bed—spent.

Sighing softly, I place a final quick kiss between her legs, sliding my hand from the top of her pussy up her body towards the curve of her neck. There, I hold her, marveling at the perfection that is her gorgeous face, her eyes still closed, squeezed in ecstasy.

I can't help the laugh that escapes my lips. "Sanchez, are you okay?"

She exhales, biting her bottom lip before speaking. "I don't know. Is being half-alive considered okay?"

"Depends on which half," I say, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. "How about I get us some pancakes so the dead half can come back?"

She nods, eyes closed, a smile forming. "The Gordon Ramsay pancakes?"

"Uh, sure?"

"Valeria told me. She calls them Gordon Ramsay pancakes. They're the only ones worth coming back to life for."

"Really?" I press my hardness against her thigh, kissing her neck. "The only things worth coming back to life for?"

She grins and opens her eyes. I grin back.

I swipe my thumb over my mouth, licking the last taste of Carmina from my lips. With a lingering smile, I hop out of bed, stark naked. "Be right back. Try to wake up the other half of you. I'm not done with all of you yet."

Chapter Nineteen

CARMINA

If satisfaction had a name, it would be Quentin Anderson, written in bold, underlined, and maybe even glittered.

Lying there, bathed in a post-orgasm glow that could light up a downtown Seattle block, I already know I want more. And not just the physical—though Quentin definitely sparked desires I didn’t even know existed.

But something deeper. More lasting.

I don’t really know what "lasting" means in my chaotic life. But I do know I’ve been guarding my heart like Fort Knox forever.

Would it be so bad, giving Quentin a key?

Every kiss felt like a promise of something good, something worth coming back to life for. Promises sweetened with powdered sugar and maple syrup when he finishes those pancakes.

My stomach rumbles at the thought of fluffy, warm stacks dripping with butter and sweetness. But it also aches with a different kind of hunger.

Just as the image of Quentin's broad, muscular back comes to mind, a noise—other than my stomach growling—disturbs the peace. The sound of a phone ringing. I groan, not wanting to break my satisfied glow.

But when the phone rings again, curiosity wins.

It’s definitely not my cell, and I doubt anyone other than Freddie or Jenny would call this early on a Saturday.

Pinpointing the noise to the hallway bathroom, I wrap a sheet around me and head out. My bare feet slap softly against the hardwood floors, my half-Greek goddess, half-rumpled mess look probably on full display.

As I approach the bathroom, the ringing stops. Taking a quick peek through the cracked door, I see Quentin's phone on the sink counter. I hesitantly pick it up. It’s a missed call from a number I don’t recognize.

Probably just a wrong number or telemarketer, I think as I turn to leave. But then something catches my eye.

A notification from a messaging app pops up on the screen.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and I click on it.

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