Page 76 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Undo your pants,” he says.

My pulse races. I want my pants to be undone for me. I really, really want him to undo them.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask it but I hold back. Usually when I ask for things, there’s a whole solid, sensible basis to it that I could explain if need be. I would never request a thing justbecauselikesome mad queen, but I really do want him to undo it...just because.

“Elle,” he says.

“Umm, can you do it?” I force myself to say. “I want you to unzip my pants, please,” I say.

I wait, sure he’s going to think I’m a freak, but then he groans this deep, caveman-ish groan. Wicked fingers move around my waistband all the way to the side, unlatching the latch, unzipping the zipper.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Like that,” I breathe.

He urges my hips up, and I comply. Together, we tug my pants loose from my crotch, a nifty cooperative project that gives him extra space to work.

His fingers are sliding around the loosened waistband of my pants, pressing to the bare flesh of my belly beneath, and down on the inside.

“Grab the table edge,” he whispers, and I do it—anything to keep him doing his magical multitasking.

I swallow, thrilled and stunned, when he reaches the elastic of my cotton panties. Maddeningly, he moves his fingers over my cotton-clad mound.

His lips hover at my cheek, right in front of my ear, not quite touching, though now and then, there’s a brush of whiskers that I feel down to my toes.

His breath is warm puffs, hot secret caresses that suggest he, too, is affected. I’m panting softly, in time with him.

I gasp when he hits the damp spot over my clit. “Fuck,” I say, which is totally not a thing I say.

His breath fans over my cheek, now. His fingers steal under the protective panel of my panties, making blunt contact with my madly aroused core. “This,” he says, apropos of nothing.

“That?” I say.

Whiskery lips curl into a smile against my cheek. And then his finger begins to move. Slowly—inexorably—across my clit.

Voices from the video sound out as if from light years away. The bench beneath me seems to tilt as he strokes. I can hear breathy sounds that can only be coming from me. He’s reduced me to something I don’t recognize—a creature who is beyond right and wrong, beyond empathy and evil, existing on the tendril of a dream.

I’m all need, and I need him.

I don’t even care.

I push my pelvis into his hand. He strokes me with confidence, like he knows how I do myself, and he’s bent on doing it better, overachiever that he is.

My breath has gone ragged. I’m being taken over by the devil and I love it so much.

“More?” he asks.

“Yes, more!” I whisper, so close to the edge. “Faster.”

“Hmm,” he says, and it definitely means something different in this context than when he says it during those post-negotiation huddles. I like what it means in this context. I like that he enjoys my telling him what I want. I liked how he seems to think it’s the best thing ever.

And he does it, which I think is the best thing ever.

I’m panting hard. He moves deftly, adding pressure.

My orgasm ignites out of somewhere deep inside me, filling me with pleasure all the way up to my eyeballs.

I’m gripping the table edge, panting, coming, strung out with pleasure.

---