Page 112 of Return Billionaire to Sender

I like that, being that I’m not a witchy person. And it’s not hard to keep the smile, because now I’m feeling witchy. I lean over and grab the condom from his little bedside kit that has a sleep mask and other stuff. I rip it open and I scoot down and pull off his sweats. His cock is hard and thick and dusky, and curled slightly to one side in a way that feels really Malcolm. I kiss the tip, just because I really, really want to, and then my whole mouth is on him, and I’m taking him all the way in. I want to feel him inside like this, to know him like this.

“You had one job to do,” he says.

I hum my answer really loudly and his body tenses in response, like the hum nearly put him over the edge. He feels sexy and dangerous. Eventually, I let him go and I make a big production of taking the condom from the wrapper. “How do I do it?”

“Just a little air at the tip—”

“No, dude, I was in class that day. I mean, how do I do it sexy for you?”

“Serious and slow. Deliberate.”

“But with the witchy smile,” I say.

“Yes.”

“You are very specific,” I whisper, cladding him slowly and deliberately, with my witchiest smile and witchiest vibe—but not like I’m being somebody else, or role-playing. It’s a part of me that he brings out.

I crawl over him and settle onto him, dying to have him in me. He moves under me, watching me, entering me slowly, filling me.

I give him a little growl of my own.

“You want a little something extra?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes.

He smiles. “Whatever you were just thinking, you have to tell me.”

“All in good time,” I say. I’m stoking up a rhythm that I don’t think I can ever stop.

“I meant little extra here.” He puts his thumb on my clit as he moves, letting me rut against it, rutting into the dampness between us.

“Yesssss,” I say, eyes shut tight.

I feel swollen against him, against the knucklebone of his thumb right on my clit, and like every nerve ending down there is exposed and building pleasure. When I open my eyes, I see him watching me, monitoring my reactions, my pleasure, adjusting his thumb angle, minute adjustments like a pilot coming in for a very difficult landing. Because he’s like that, seeing people, responding to them.

People don’t always see him clearly, the unlicked cub alone in his castle, but he sees them.

He’s monitoring my pleasure, trying to give me this, because he thinks I’m a good person who deserves his best.

Desperation flows hot through me as I move on him. I’m desperate for release, my body coiling; my hands greedy for every inch of his sexy body. And then I can feel him starting to come, though I can’t be sure, because I am coming, pleasure exploding through me like a thousand secret, desperate fireworks.

26

Malcolm

The processof taking seats around the negotiation table has always been a tiresome drama of people finding socially acceptable reasons not to sit directly next to me.

Which means they have to find reasons to sit next to other people.

The drama is mostly a pantomime, with some awkward comments thrown in— “Let me see that…” or “what was your question again?” Or sometimes the comment comes first, and then the shock of discovery—an empty chair right there. “Oh!”

The drama is tiresome, mostly because of the assumption that my feelings might be hurt if I realize that nobody wants to sit near me, whereas I vastly prefer that nobody to sit next to me.

Except Elle.

The not-sitting-by-me drama has become hugely convenient over the past weeks. All Elle has to do is wait and she’s forced to sit next to me.

We even laughed about it once. She tried to suggest that people might truly want to sit next to me, but they’re scared of me. I told her to please not be tiresome like that, and she smiled like she does, and I sat there loving her smile and I forced her to agree, at any rate, that it was convenient for us.

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