Page 114 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

I force myself to picture my mother, used and discarded. Devastated and addicted. That’s what happens when you want a man more than he wants you. “I think you are sucking at the concept of vacation sex,” I whisper.

He comes in and cups my face. He brushes a thumb over my cheek. The tenderness of the motion undoes me.

“When you’re in darkness, or when you’re cold, the senses register sudden warmth and light as pain,” he continues. “But it really just means that you were without those things for too long.”

He’s holding my face like I’m the most precious thing ever. He thinks he wants me. He does want me.

For now.

“You’re warmth and light,” he says, “and I registered it as kryptonite.”

“Dude,” I say. “You’re ruining our vacation sex.”

He’s about to say more—I can tell.

My pulse races. My will is crumbling. He needs to stop saying nice things. How do you get a man to stop saying things you love hearing?

I can think of one way only. I step back, fix him with a saucy smile, and whip off my nightshirt.

“What are you doing?” he rumbles.

I put my hands to my nipples, start tweaking them in the way I like.

He stills, transfixed in his surly Rex way.

“Mmm,” I say, loving his dark gaze on me.

He balls his fists, inky brow furrowed. He hates that I’m doing this, yet he cannot resist. Eventually he relents. As if drawn by an otherworldly command, he comes to me. He cups my breasts while I’m doing my nipples, kissing one, then kissing the other.

“You’re such a little witch,” he grates. “Don’t stop.”

I don’t stop—not until he yanks away one of my hands and presses his lips to my nipple, taking charge.

I hiss out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yesssss.” I slide my hands over his broad back, grabbing handfuls of his shirt, pulling his shirt from his waistband.

“Take anything,” he rasps.

I pull the shirt up over his torso. “How about this shirt? This shirt could be worth something on eBay.”

He steps away and lets me pull his shirt clear over his head, chest rippling with muscle.

A hard light appears in his eyes. My pulse skitters in the split second before he pushes me back onto the bed with enough force that I bounce. Enough force that my mind melts a little.

He crawls over me, pawing at my pajama pants. He’s a fucking sexy, wounded beast and I want him so bad I can’t think.

“I’ve been imagining this all day,” he says, stripping me. “Fuck, Tabitha.” Hungrily, he takes my lips, then my neck. He’s kissing my skin in slightly random soft places; I nearly orgasm just from that.

I roll over on top of him as he kicks off his shoes. I fall to exploring his body, all the private areas that are just him. He’s endlessly perfect, endlessly delicious. I’m holding him and kissing him, and his hands are all over my ass.

And when he settles between my legs and pushes in, filling me perfectly, I groan like nobody’s listening. We move like we’re in each other’s minds, reading each other, rolling around in perfect tune, as if we want the same things at the same time.

It’s scary and it’s exciting and it’s utterly unstoppable.

Then he reaches between my legs, down between us, and he does my clit while he’s inside of me, watching my eyes with that coal dark gaze, getting us both off together. It’s the hottest thing, us watching each other while we come—scary and hot and like nothing else.

We’re lying there afterwards, side by side, and he kisses me. “I wanna be new with you.”

I press two fingers to his lips. “You know the number one way to ruin vacation sex?” I ask.

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