Page 37 of Falling for Mr. Billionaire

And fuck me, she’s perfect.

The storm may have shut everything else down. But between us?

It’s just getting started.

The wind shrieks against the bungalow, rattling windows. Rain lashes the walls like it’s trying to claw its way inside. But in here, the bedroom is still.

Still—and thick with heat.

The emergency lantern casts a soft, flickering glow that dances across her skin as she shifts beneath the blanket. Her tank top has ridden up again, exposing a strip of bare stomach. I catch a glimpse of smooth skin, the delicate dip of her waist, before I force my gaze back to the ceiling.

We’re both lying on the bed, propped up by pillows, a few inches of mattress between us—safe, polite, excruciating inches.

I feel her. Every breath. Every twitch. Every time the blanket brushes her leg against mine.

She turns to face me. “What time is it?”

I glance at my watch. “Almost midnight.”

She lets out a soft exhale. “Feels later.”

“Storm’ll do that.”

Silence falls again, the kind that isn’t empty. It’s thick. Loaded. Electric.

She rolls onto her back, one arm flung over her head, exposing more of her side, her ribcage rising and falling slow and steady. The fabric of her tank is loose now, and nearly see-through. My throat tightens.

“You cold?” I ask, because I need to say something—anything—to keep from touching her.

She glances at me, eyes unreadable. “A little.”

I lift the blanket slightly. “Come closer, then.”

She hesitates.

Then moves.

She slides over, slow and cautious, settling against my side. Her leg brushes mine. Her hip curves into me.

I drape the blanket around her, arm tucked behind her shoulders. I keep it safe. Still.

But my entire body is wired, alert, aware of every part of her pressing against mine. Her thigh against my hip. Her head near my collarbone. Her scent—clean skin and faint coconut shampoo—floods my senses.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nods. “Yeah.”

Another beat.

“You’re tense,” she says softly.

I chuckle. “You think?”

She shifts slightly, her hand brushing my abdomen, accidentally—or not. My muscles tighten under her touch. Her fingers linger.

“You’re warm,” she murmurs.

“Should I move?” I ask.

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