Page 9 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 2

“Delaney, your panties are wet,” he says. His voice is low and teasing. He reaches up and hooks his thumbs into the waist band, tugging at them until I lift my ass. They slide down, and he leaves them in a tangle on the floor. He leans in close, his lips not quite touching me. It makes my toes curl. It makes me cry out. I reach for his hair and weave my fingers into the soft waves. I try to pull him to me, but he resists. “Oh no,” his voice rumbles. “You’re not in charge of this.”

I whimper. He’s hasn’t even touched my bare skin, and I already feel seconds away from an orgasm. I need his lips on me now.

“Tell me what you want, Delaney.”

“I want you to taste me.” I say the words without thinking, words that would normally cause me to flush with embarrassment. But Nixon makes me feel so sexy, so sexual, that telling him what I want him to do to my body feels as natural as breathing.

Thankfully, I don’t have to ask twice. His tongue roughly parts my folds, traveling across the slickness of my pussy until he reaches my clit. He rests the flat of his tongue there, then sucks it into his mouth.

I nearly come undone.

My hands, still tangled in his hair, grab fistfuls and pull. I cry out my, head thrown back, as the first wave of an orgasm washes over me.

“Don’t stop!” I cry out when he pulls back. I want more, so much more. I want his tongue on me always.

“Oh, I don’t plan to,” he says, rising to his full height. He towers over me, his eyes burning down onto me with such force I swear they’re going to leave marks. He reaches for his belt, undoing his pants quickly. He reaches into his black boxer briefs and pulls out his cock, and that’s when I finally get my first glimpse of it. It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, and that includes when Elise and I got drunk freshman year and pulled up a bunch of porn on her laptop. We’d giggled, full of second-hand embarrassment. The idea of a huge cock scared me then, but all I feel when I see Nixon’s is lust. I want it. I want to touch it, to taste it, to feel it inside me. I know from Friday night that he fills every space inside me. I know from Friday that it feels amazing.

And I want it.

I put my hands on his chest and push him until he steps back slights. I can see a moment of confusion on his face, but it quickly dissipates when I wrap my hand around the wide girth of him, then bend over and wrap my lips around the tip. I let my tongue flick across the head, where a warm drop of precum is oozing. I moan my pleasure, and now it’s his hands in my hair. I smile as I hear the groans emanating from his chest. I suck him further into my mouth, letting the flat of my tongue run along the underside of his cock. He bumps the back of my throat, and I hum into him.

“Fuck, Delaney, you’re so good at that.” Which is not a compliment I’ve ever gotten before, but I suspect my newfound skill comes from just how desperately I want him.

And then he pushes me back, almost roughly. He reaches down and lifts me effortlessly back onto the desk. He pushes my knees apart roughly, then leans forward, his hands on the glass on either side of my body. I feel the heat of his cock brush against my pussy. I could shift slightly, and he’d slip inside me. But he stands and holds up a blue foil square. A condom. I quickly shake away the disappointment, because of course he has a condom. Of course we’d use one. I’ve never had sex without one. I don’t think I ever would, unless I was with someone I knew I’d be with forever — or at least for a very very long time. Still, something about the feel of his bare skin filled me with desire, and it felt dangerous to be so close.

He arches an eyebrow at me, as if he can hear the dangerous thoughts in my head. But of course, he can’t (can he?). He rolls the condom on, grabs my hips, and drives deep inside of me. The feeling of it nearly sends me crashing through the glass top of his desk. I scream — fully scream — wrapping my legs around his waist and pulling him deeper inside.

Nixon reaches for the hem of my dress, and in one swift motion, has it over my head, joining my panties in a puddle on the floor. He reaches up and flicks the hooks on my bra (which thankfully matches my red silk panties), tossing it aside. He sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, his teeth nipping roughly at the delicate skin. The whole time he thrusts away, my hips moving in perfect tandem with his. I’ve never felt anything like this, and I never, ever want it to stop.

I wrap my arms around his neck. His mouth moves to cover mine, and as soon as our tongues meet, I feel my orgasm burst wide, deep inside me. I kiss him like he’s giving me air, grinding against him as I ride every wave.

“Delaney,” Nixon growls, his voice ragged. His entire body tenses, and I realize he’s coming with me. I pull him tight, our hips thrusting into each other. Our foreheads are pressed together, my hand behind his neck, anchoring me to him, or maybe just anchoring me to reality. Because nothing about this feels real. It all feels just too good.

We stay there, him inside me, basking in our pleasure for so long I lose track of time. When he finally stands and slips out of me to dispose of the condom, I realize we’re both slick with sweat. I reach up to my hair and feel the telltale tangles of sex and pleasure.

Nixon returns to his post in front of me, ducking down to hand me my bra and panties, which I slip on. I should feel oceans of embarrassment right now, naked in my boss’s office after he gave me a screaming orgasm. But I don’t. Something about this feels right.

Well, not everything, of course.

Nixon runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He buttons his pants, reaching for the sweater that he discarded at some point during our encounter. Stretching it back over his head, I feel both a sense of disappointment at him covering up that gloriously muscled chest, and lust at seeing the way his body works as he does something as simple as dressing. He’s like a panther, strong yet subtle, handsome yet dangerous.

“Delaney,” he says finally. I like the way he always says my name, like he really knows me.

“Nixon,” I reply, slipping my dress over my head. I give my long blond hair a shake, and give him a smile.

“What we’re doing here …” he trails off, and I can sense the tension returning to his body. I hate to see that, especially after all the work we just did to unwind him, so I step in.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I assure him, and I mean it.

He nods. “Except to say that we really can’t … talk about it. No one can know, of course.”

“Of course,” I reply. I don’t feel like he’s trying to hide me, because I also don’t want anyone to know. If people found out I was sleeping with Nixon Blake, any hope I have of a job at Scour or any tech company — hell, any company in Boston — would disappear. I’d be the intern who screwed her way to the top. I’d be a cocktail party joke. My career would be over before it even began.

He searches my eyes, like he’s trying to make sure I understand. Or maybe he’s trying to see if there’s something else.

“I’m not done, though,” he says, finally. “With you.”

They’re the words I didn’t know I needed to hear, and I give him a smirk in return.

“I should fucking hope not.”

---