Page 92 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Inappropriate?” He kisses my mound; his lips frustratingly near my pussy. “So inappropriate.” His words are warm heat, so close and yet so far.

I cry out in frustration, but he won’t relent.

“Fine. You get a tick.”

“If I lick your pussy some more I get a tick?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes!”

And then he’s back. Finishing what he started, only it’s better now—because of how intolerable it was that he stopped, and all my nerve endings were straining for his tongue to go back, the proof that absence definitely makes the pussy grow fonder.

He gives me a few more expertly placed, scarily-advanced-intelligence licks, and that’s it—orgasm comes over me like a zillion spinning stars.

I’m gasping and panting.

He keeps me flying, lick action grinding to a halt as I freak underneath him on the bed. He kisses his way up my totally pleasurized and still-shuddering body.

“That was so not fair,” I say, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling fingers.

“I know,” he says. He yanks down my bra and kisses my breasts. I half sit up and pull it off for him myself, tossing it aside. I’m down this road so far, nothing really matters.

“My little country mouse,” he says into my nipple. “You have no idea how sexy you are when you’re making demands. You just have no fucking idea.”

I’m feverishly undoing his belt—in for a penny, in for a pound, or more specifically, in for Malcolm’s underwear, in for my hand around his cock. I groan, because he’s warm and heavy in my hand and utterly perfect in every way. “Your penis is very you,” I say.

“I’m glad. I’d hate it to be not mine. Any other cock would not fuck you properly.”

“Need you in me now,” I say.

“Say it again, this time with that witchy look,” he says.

God, this man. He makes me feel new. I give him the look that I think he means. I’m about to repeat what I said,but I decide to surprise him. “Fuck me now, Malcolm.”

He growls. A condom wrapper crinkles.

I fumble with his buttons.

“Country mouse, so careful and gentle,” he says in his sexy accent.

It feels like a challenge or an insult, maybe both, and there’s only one way to answer—I rip open his shirt.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Uh, sorry…” I mean it, actually.

He laughs, and then I do, too. How do I feel so comfortable with him? I press my hands to his chest as he enters me, thick and huge.

“Fuck,” I gasp.

“Too fast?”

“No, I meant,fuck yes.” That is totally what the witchy-look girl would say. I grab ripped shirt fabric, pulling him to me. He pushes into me again and again as I consume his skin with hungry palms.

And at some point I’m on top of him, moving on him. He grasps my nipples, scissors-style, between his fingers. He just holds them gently but firmly, but it creates this wicked tug as I move over him, a tug that I’m free to exploit, and I go for it, just taking the nipple action as I take my pleasure from his body.

It’s midnight and there’s no yesterday and no tomorrow and I’ve gotten lost with the villain in my story.

I’ve eaten the croissants and all the cheese and crackers and at this point I’m moving on to the chocolate cake. I’m plowing through the cake, plowing through the ice cream, and maybe even some bruschetta. I’m consuming everything delicious about him. It’s ludicrous that I’m going to come again, but I know that I will. I’m feasting on the whole world.

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