Page 39 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

The bluntness of her statement hits me in the chest. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” She arches an eyebrow. “You’re paying me for sexual services.”

“I’m paying you to maintain our marriage agreement. This is just a component of that.”

“Semantics.” She shrugs, then takes a breath. “Do you prefer standing or sitting?”

The clinical question catches me off guard. “What?”

“For the blow job.”

I swallow. “Well, I’m sitting already...”

“As you wish.”

My cock hardens further at her submissiveness. I spread my legs slightly, watching her reaction. But I sense nothing from her.

She approaches and kneels between my legs, her practiced movements suggesting this isn’t her first time in this position. The thought sends an unexpected surge of jealousy through me.

Without preamble, she reaches for my belt, unfastening it with quick, efficient movements. I watch her face. She’s focused, almost bored, like she’s handling a routine task. My zipper comes down next, and she looks up, meeting my eyes briefly.

“I’ll need some help with your pants,” she explains.

I lift my hips and pull my jeans and boxer briefs down to mid-thigh, exposing my cock. It springs free, already fully hard, a drop of precum glistening at the tip.

I catch a fleeting expression crossing her face, surprise, perhaps appreciation, before her features settle back into neutral professionalism.

“You’re not what I expected,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

“Meaning?”

“Nothing important.” She wraps her hand around the base of my shaft, her grip firm but not tight.

I inhale sharply at the contact. Her hand is soft, warm, smaller than mine but still capable of handling my size. She strokes once, twice, assessing.

“Tell me if you have specific preferences,” she says, all business.

“Just get on with it,” I growl, irritated by her detachment yet impossibly turned on.

She nods once, then lowers her head, maintaining eye contact until the last moment when her lips part and take the head of my cock into her mouth. The wet heat sends a jolt of pleasure through me. My hands fist in the bedding to keep from grabbing her hair. It’s all I can do to prevent myself from thrusting my hips repeatedly and fucking the shit out of her face.

Her technique is flawless. She uses her hand in tandem with her mouth, creating a perfect rhythm. Her tongue swirls around the sensitive spot just beneath the head, then flattens to take me deeper. Not all the way... I’m far too large for that... but she compensates with her hand, twisting slightly on the upstroke.

“Fuck,” I mutter, unable to hold back the word. “Fuck!”

She doesn’t acknowledge it, simply continues her methodical movements. There’s no teasing, no playfulness. Just steady, relentless stimulation designed to bring me to climax as efficiently as possible.

I should be grateful. Most men would kill for head this skillful. But something’s missing. The connection. The passion. The feeling that she wants this as much as I do.

Which is ridiculous because neither of us should want this.

It’s just a clause.

A transaction.

So why does her detachment bother me?

I’m thinking too much. I close my eyes, focusing on the physical sensation. Focusing on keeping my hips utterly relaxed. Because I know if I start thrusting, I won’t be able to stop.

---