Page 44 of Sexting the Billionaire

I can't help the laugh that escapes me. "Clearly one of my less successful strategies."

The tension breaks slightly as she smiles. "For what it's worth, I kept answering for the same reason. I thought as long as it stayed in text form, it wasn't really crossing a line."

"And now?" I ask, suddenly serious again. "What lines are we crossing tonight, Cassie?"

She takes a deep breath, her eyes never leaving mine. "I don't know. I just know I'm tired of pretending I don't want this. Want..." She hesitates. "You."

There it is. The admission that changes everything. Two simple words that somehow hold more power than any business contract I've ever signed.

I close the distance between us in three steps, my hands finding her waist, pulling her against me. "Last chance to walk away," I murmur, my lips hovering just above hers.

"I don't want to walk away," she whispers. "I want you to make good on that wall fantasy."

Something primal and possessive roars to life inside me. I lift her easily, setting her on the kitchen counter and stepping between her knees. Her dress rides up, revealing the pale skin of her thighs as she wraps her legs around my waist.

"Here?" I ask, my voice rough with desire. "Or would you prefer an actual wall?"

Her laugh vibrates against my lips. "I'm not picky about the surface as long as you're pressed against me."

It's all the permission I need. My mouth claims hers, no longer restrained by public setting or professional pretense.

Her hands pull at my shirt, untucking it with impatient movements that send buttons flying.

I should care—the shirt probably cost more than some people's entire wardrobe—but all I can focus on is the feel of her fingers against my skin.

"Bedroom," I manage between kisses, reluctantly pulling away.

She makes a sound of protest that turns into a gasp of surprise when I lift her off the counter, her legs still wrapped around my waist. "I can walk," she says, though her arms tighten around my neck.

"Less efficient," I argue, carrying her through the penthouse with more urgency than dignity.

She laughs against my neck, the sound transforming into something else entirely when I press her against the wall of the hallway, unable to wait the additional fifteen steps to the bedroom. Her back arches as my mouth finds the sensitive spot below her ear, her breath coming in short gasps that fuel my own urgency.

"The zipper," she pants, shifting against me. "The dress?—"

I find the hidden zipper at the back of her dress, sliding it down with deliberate slowness that makes her squirm. "Something about removing it slowly," I remind her, echoing my earlier words at the gala.

The midnight blue fabric falls away, revealing black lace underneath that makes my breath catch. "Beautiful," I murmur, setting her down gently to let the dress pool at her feet.

She stands before me in just her underwear and heels, somehow looking more powerful than vulnerable. Her hands reach for my bow tie, removing it with a deliberate tug that sends another surge of heat through me.

"Your turn," she says, her fingers working on the remaining buttons of my shirt.

I let her undress me, enjoying the look of appreciation in her eyes as my chest is revealed. Her hands explore the muscles of my shoulders, my abs, trailing lower with clear intent.

"Not yet," I catch her wrists, gently but firmly. "First, I believe there was something about your wrists above your head?"

Her eyes darken with desire as I guide her hands up, pressing them against the wall above her head. I hold them there with one of mine, the other free to explore the curves I've been fantasizing about for weeks.

"Is this what you imagined?" I ask, my fingers tracing the edge of her bra, teasing but not quite giving her what she wants.

"Yes," she breathes, arching into my touch. "But in my imagination, there was less talking and more?—"

I cut her off with a kiss that makes it clear I understand exactly what her imagination called for. My free hand slides lower, finding the heat between her legs, drawing a moan from her that I feel rather than hear.

"Bedroom," she gasps when we break for air. "Now."

This time I don't argue. I release her wrists and lead her the remaining distance to my room, where floor-to-ceiling windows offer a spectacular view of the city skyline—though neither of us is interested in the view right now.

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