Page 144 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

He doesn’t respond except to thrust harder, deeper. I can feel the tension in his body, the barely leashed aggression.

The stretch burns,perfect, each snap of his hips a collision of fury and need. I melt into the rhythm, friction igniting like a struck match, the room dissolving into panting and skin and the primal chorus ofyes, yes, yes.

Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me, building the familiar pressure low in my belly. I brace myself against the couch, meeting his movements, chasing my own release.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, his voice rough. “I want to feel you cum around my cock.”

I slide one hand between my legs, finding my clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, and I can feel myself teetering on the edge.

“I’m close,” I warn him, my fingers working faster.

And then, inexplicably, he stops. Completely. Still buried inside me but motionless. The sudden absence of friction is jarring, pulling me back from the brink.

“Dom?” I try to glance over my shoulder, but his grip on my hair prevents it.

He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving against my back. For a moment we stay like that, frozen in a tableau of unfulfilled desire. Then he starts moving again, his rhythm different. It’s harder. Faster. More erratic.

Before I can adjust to the new pace, he shudders against me, a low groan escaping his throat as he cums. His grip on my hair loosens as he slumps forward, his forehead resting briefly between my shoulder blades.

What just happened?

He pulls out abruptly, leaving me empty and unsatisfied. I hear him moving away, disposing of the condom. I stay bent over the arm of the couch for a moment, trying to process what just occurred.

This wasn’t about pleasure. At least not mine. This was about control. About release. About something I can’t quite name.

Something’s wrong.

Slowly, I straighten, pulling up my panties, feeling oddly disconnected from my own body.

When I turn around, Dom is already zipping up his pants, his face unreadable. He doesn’t look at me as he stalks across the living room, his movements restless, caged.

“We should leave for dinner,” he says, his voice flat. “I’ll meet you downstairs in the car.”

“Okay,” I agree automatically, still trying to make sense of what happened. I want to ask him what that was, but he’s already gone, and I hear the front door open and close.

Jesus. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

I’m left standing in the living room, my clothes disheveled, my body humming with unresolved tension.

I gather my skirt from the floor, feeling oddly hollow. Last night, he held me in his arms and whispered things about connections that couldn’t be denied. Today, he fucked me like a stranger and walked away.

What changed?

The deal.

We signed the 1.5 billion dollar deal.

Maybe that’s all he really cared about after all?

I head to the bathroom, needing to collect myself before this mysterious business dinner. Under the harsh bathroom lights, I assess the damage. My hair is a mess, falling out of its neat ponytail. My lipstick is smeared. There’s a slight redness to my neck where his stubble scraped against my skin. I can see some of the hickeys he left from the night before, where the makeup has smeared off.

Suddenly I start to cry.

You’re an idiot, Tatiana Cole. A world-class, grade-A moron.

I was stupid enough to fall for him. After Rylan. After being left at the altar. I learned my lesson once. And yet I fell in love again.

Love is a pathetic fairy tale, a lie we tell ourselves to make the brutal reality of human connection seem less terrifying.

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