Page 57 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

“My stamina is extremely impressive,” I say.

“Oh, I’ve had better,” Tabitha says coolly, but those rosy spots have appeared, heating her cheeks. I imagine cupping them, touching the curves of her cheekbones. I imagine tasting the soft warmth of her lips. The breathy sounds she’d make as I fit her up against me.

Chapter 7

Tabitha

I swallow,remembering our breathless kiss on the plane. The way Rex held me, so fierce and intense. The air is electric between us. “I’ve definitely had better,” I say.

“Doubtful.” Rex leans against the marble pillar, the picture of evil cool in his tux.

I can’t pull my thoughts together enough to form a sentence, so I shrug. I don’t know what’s for show anymore.

I’m used to jokey, friendly sex, not friction or strong feelings. Friction and strong feelings seem dangerous.

“Baby,” he says, voice gruff, “I’m doing things you never imagined.”

I need to make a joke to cut the heat, but I can’t think of a joke when his sexy scowl is bolting down into my belly.

“Things I’ve never imagined,” I whisper stupidly, as though I don’t believe it. But I so do.

“That’s right,” he says.

By some miracle, I gather my wits. “Well,” I say. “I never imagined a man gently slathering jam onto my chest while patriotic marching band music plays. I never imagined that.”

“Baby,” he rumbles, “the things I’m doing are good things.”

Shivers fly over me. “You’ll address me as kitten,” I whisper, heart thundering like a jackhammer.

His lip quirks into a lewd, lazy half smile that warms my core. He’ll do what he wants—that’s what his half smile says.

“Gulp,” I whisper.

He says, “You’re doing good things, too. Your mouth is fucking amazing.”

I shouldn’t have taunted him—he’s a powerbroker with control issues. But something keeps driving me on. “My mouthisamazing, but not as amazing as the rest of me.”

His gaze intensifies. His dangerously sexy villain vibe has me immobilized. “True enough,” he says.

“You worship every inch of me,” I say.

“Every hour of every day,” he says. “That’s why they never see us.”

I sigh, but I’m not at all weary. I’m excited, and it’s terrifying. I work overtime to keep things light and fun and manageable. Rex is scary and unmanageable. I love it and I hate it.

“Sometimes you wake me up begging for it,” he says hoarsely. “You’re lying there in the middle of the night, and I wake up to you straddling me, and then I flip you over and I take you how I want. I’m not the only one who’s insatiable.”

My breathing speeds.

“I like to keep you really close to the edge,” he continues. “When I have you where I want you, trembling with need, begging for that final stroke that makes you shatter into a million pieces…”

I roll my eyes, desperate to get back to some humor and control. Desperate for something clever to say, but my entire psyche is busy digesting his little scenario. My entire psyche likes his little scenario.

Then he reaches out. He sets one feather-light fingertip on the base of my throat, right in the center, that vulnerable center divot.

My belly quivers.

His touch is so light, it’s barely a touch, but my mind turns to gossamer, flowing brightly in the wind.

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