Page 39 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

The only warning he gave me was a stern “Don’t move, Arden” before leaning over me to hit the speaker button.

I froze, legs akimbo, trying to hold in a horrified yip.

Caspian said something in…I guess…Japanese? And received a longish reply. While I lay there, terrified of the sound of my own breathing, almost unbearably aware of my body, and trying not to squirm. Or do anything that might reveal what was going on to the person—or, people, fuck, what if it was people?—on the other end of the line.

I couldn’t tell if I was panic-stricken or aroused beyond all reason. My cock was definitely on the second team.

Caspian was still talking. Rattling off, I don’t know, figures maybe.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught our reflection in the window. I looked like the virgin sacrifice in a Victorian horror: this pale shape, yielding rapturously beneath the shadow of Caspian. I’d never felt quite so…penetrated. Or so aware of it anyway: the hot stretch and the pressure of him inside me. It made me wish he had fangs to sink into the tender flesh of my bared throat.

Just then, he dragged a finger all the way up the underside of my cock. My mouth fell open on a soundless scream. I was going to come. Or die. Or both. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Caspian put a hand over my mouth.

Which I was grateful for…and also found superhot. So it was helpful and not helpful. I thrashed—though given my position, pinned and impaled and teetering on the verge of a deliriously exciting feargasm, it was more of an undignified wriggle. Somehow I got myself under control, my teeth scraping against his palm as I muffled my whimpers.

A pause.

Then Caspian murmured something, his tone politely encouraging, and the conversation resumed. It should have been more incongruous: him dealing with whatever he was dealing with, while I was shuddering helplessly on his cock. But it was the same thing, really, wasn’t it—utter command of his universe, from the financial empire he ruled to the lover panting and writhing on his desk.

I honestly thought he’d be at his most remote. I didn’t know how else he could be responding with such ease and precision in a language that wasn’t even his own. But then he glanced down at me and I didn’t think I’d ever seen him quite that out of control, with his hair sweat-heavy over his brow and his cheeks all sex-flushed with heat and exhilaration. His eyes were bright with cruelty but there was something softer too. Something heartbreakingly innocent. Joy, maybe?

It was a good job I was gagged.

I mean, I could probably avoid having a screaming orgasm while he was on speakerphone with Tokyo, but no power on earth would have stopped me blurting out I love you. I kissed his hand instead and he smiled at me, this perfect, film-star smile.

Then he started, as if maybe—just maybe—he’d lost track of the discussion the teeniest tiniest bit. Thankfully, he couldn’t see me smirking under his palm. He said something fairly sharp in response to whatever the other man was telling him and reached into the interior pocket of his jacket, pulling out a fountain pen of such sleek, gold-edged simplicity it was must have been worth more than my family’s house.

Twisting off the lid with a practiced motion, he brought the nib to the planes of my abdomen and scribbled something across my skin. I squinted down my own body trying to see. Numbers? A series of numbers.

It was a weird sensation—a little bit scratchy, a little bit tickly, not really pleasure, not quite pain—but, oh God, the ownership in it. The casual way he marked me and claimed me, turned me into his personal Google keep.

And oh fuck…fuck I was going to lose it completely.

He must have realized. Probably he couldn’t have failed to, given my curling toes and the straining muscles in my thighs, the noises he was almost managing to contain in his hand. A few more notes I could barely keep still for and a hasty—I assumed—goodbye. And the line went dead with the sweetest click I’d ever heard in my life.

The moment my mouth was free, I let out this…mortifying banshee wail of sex need. Caspian’s pen clacked against the desk. And then he was fucking me, fucking me hard enough to rattle the glass and judder my bones, and it was perfect, the pleasure as inexorable as the hammering of his cock against my prostate, coiling so tight inside me it was like being strangled. In a good way. Maybe. I wasn’t sure.

I sucked in a sobbing breath. “Ohgodcaspianpleaseohgodplease.” Fuck knew what I was begging for. More. Less. The luxurious liberty of begging itself, I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

Just…

“Caspian.”

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. Moisture pooled on my stomach from my cock. I was starting to slide on the desk, driven back with every harsh shove into me. The scent of us—sex and sweat and the last honeyed base notes of Caspian’s cologne—hung heavy in the air. And the sounds we made together had turned ugly: the wet slap of skin and the squelch of lube, his ragged breaths and my frantic cries.

But it was all beautiful somehow.

The reality of sex. Rough and raw and glorious.

And when he finally wrapped a hand around my cock, I came hard and instantly, relief pushing me over the edge and then almost into unconsciousness with the baseball bat of orgasm.

Breath-snatching. Heart-bursting. Like thunder inside me.

Wracking me from fingers to toes. To the ends of my fucking hair.

Muscles just…weren’t happening anymore. My hands dropped, my legs fell, curling around Caspian. But he was probably too far gone to notice. He half collapsed on top of me, his face pressed against my neck, and came too, almost silently, in great body-shaking heaves.

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