Page 17 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

This is how things go wrong.

This is dangerous.

But then his mouth finds mine again, harder this time, bruisingly intense, and the fear gets tangled up with a thrill so potent it leaves me weak-kneed. He kisses me like he’s starving, like he needs to devour me whole. And I return his passion with equal fervor.

His hands are everywhere, rough and impatient. He fumbles with the button on my jean shorts, ripping it open with a frustrated grunt. My own hands go to the buttons on his knit shirt, clumsy and shaking. Fabric tears somewhere... mine or his, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Clothes are just obstacles now.

He shoves my shorts and underwear down in one rough motion, and I kick them away. His jeans follow, hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud. He’s hard already, his thick cock springing free, slick with pre-cum.

I swallow eagerly.

God, he’s big.

He backs me towards the enormous bed, never breaking the kiss, his hands mapping the curves of my body with possessive urgency. I stumble onto the mattress, the expensive, high-thread-count sheetsfeeling cool and slightly abrasive against my bare skin under our frantic movements.

He follows me down, covering my body with his, pinning my wrists above my head with one large hand. His weight is heavy, solid, trapping me beneath him. His green eyes bore into mine, blazing with an intensity that’s both terrifying and exhilarating. There’s no trace of the easy charm now, just raw, undisguised need.

“So fucking gorgeous,” he slurs.

He lowers his head, his mouth finding my breast through the thin fabric of my tank top. He sucks hard, the wet heat pulling a gasp from my lips. His teeth graze my nipple, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to my core. He doesn’t bother removing the top, just pushes it up impatiently, exposing both breasts to his hungry mouth and hands.

His free hand slides down between my legs, fingers finding me already wet and slick. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t explore, just pushes two fingers inside me, hard and fast, stretching me. I cry out, arching off the bed, torn between the shock and the undeniable pleasure.

Part of my brain, the sensible PR part, is screaming in fear.

This is too fast. Too rough.

But the other part, the part that’s been starved for touch, for intensity, the part that thrilled at his kiss in the cabana and then against the casino wall, is undeniably aroused. My body betrays me, clenching around his fingers, wanting more despite the fear.

He groans, feeding my reaction.

He positions the thick head of his cock at my entrance. There’s no finesse, no gentleglide. He just thrusts forward, burying himself inside me in one deep, powerful stroke.

I scream, the sound muffled against his shoulder.

Wait, he forgot a condom!

But the thought is gone, lost in the pleasure of the moment, because he fills me completely, stretching me almost painfully. He’s huge, thick, impossibly deep.

Tears spring to my eyes from the intensity, the slight pain, and the overwhelming feeling of being utterly taken.

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t give me a chance to adjust. He starts moving immediately, hard, driving thrusts that slam my hips back against the mattress. It’s not making love; it’s fucking. Raw, primal, almost violent in its intensity. His grip on my wrists is iron tight. His face is taut with concentration, sweat sheening on his forehead, his breath coming in harsh pants.

There’s no dirty talk, just guttural groans torn from somewhere deep in his chest, the wet slap of his hips meeting my trembling thighs, the creak of the expensive bedframe keeping time like a metronome set to ruin. His rhythm is relentless, a jackhammer cadence that steals the air from my lungs. I bite the meat of his shoulder to stifle a scream, salt and musk flooding my tongue, my teeth denting skin as he drives deeper.

Every thrust rewires me. Sparks erupt behind my eyelids. The burn fades between my legs, replaced by liquid heat coiling tighter...tighter... my nails carving half-moons into his massive biceps as my legs lock around his waist.

My thoughts fracture into single syllables.

More.

Harder.

Yes.

The room dissolves into sensation... the iron grip of his hands, the primal scent of sex, the obscene slickness where he splits me open again.

Again.

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