Page 52 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

He shuddered, eyes closing for a moment, but, for once, it didn’t seem to be distress. “I have built a world-spanning financial empire from the ground up. I have bought and sold corporations that between them controlled the livelihoods of tens of thousands of people. I have dined with presidents and prime ministers. But nothing has made me feel as powerful, or given me such pride, as your trust, your passion, and your surrender.”

“They’re yours.” Apparently I’d gone from stressed to lustful in 2.5 seconds. “Let me show you.”

We gazed at each other across an expanse of bed. Something had definitely changed: intangible but undeniable, like the sky, and the taste of the air, on the first day of spring. But it felt fragile too in its newness. Naked skin over deep wounds.

“We shouldn’t,” he said. With precisely zero conviction. “I’m already late for a conference call.”

Casting off the blankets, I rolled onto my knees and elbows. Arched my spine in supplicant invitation, presenting my arse in a “come and get it” kind of way.

He gave a soft, helpless groan. “My Arden.”

“Yes.” I wriggled shamelessly. “Own me.”

We went at it no-frills. Just stripped-bare need. With Caspian not even undressing. I could tell he was trying to be careful but it stung after the pounding he’d given me yesterday.

His first shallow thrusts made my eyes water and my fingers knot in the sheets. But, being a total pervert, I was into it. There was something so primal and inexorable about his cock prizing my body open. It made me feel real again.

Once he was all the way in, and I was stretched and trembling under him, he slid a hand all the way up the sweat-damp line of my back. Cupped the nape of my neck, his touch controlling and tender and perfect.

“You’re all right?” he murmured.

I bucked back against him. “God, yes.”

For a man already late for a conference call, he fucked me thoroughly and languorously. And I lay among the pillows, moaning and rocking to his rhythm, my whole body alive with the raw ache of possession and the whiskey-burn of slowly gathering pleasure. I wasn’t sure I’d come—the sensations were strung together too tightly—but the brush of his lips against my shoulder blade, the way he could make me feel so degraded and so worshipped at the same fucking time, sent me over.

It got a bit more explicitly ouch in the arse department after that. I was still okay with it, since while it wasn’t good pain, it wasn’t bad pain either, and I enjoyed simply being used. Except he must have figured it out because he pulled out and, from the slick sound of skin on skin, began finishing himself off.

Which I didn’t have a problem with exactly. In fact, physically speaking, I was grateful. And maybe on a different day I would have found it hot. But, right now, I wasn’t up for anything that put distance between us. Or made me feel uninvolved in his pleasure. I tried to roll over but his hand tightened on my neck. Time was, I would probably have taken it without question. But today I was either too strong or too weak to do that for him.

“Um,” I said, in a muffled, inadvertently pillow-munching voice, “I’m all up for being objectified and wanked over, and I think I’ve got a pretty decent bum…but what’s wrong with my face?”

A moment of silence. Then. “I adore your face. But I don’t like being watched.”

I put my head back down. Listened to his harsh breath. Tried, with my brain fuzzy from orgasm, to find the Robert Frost road (correct not common interpretation) between his boundaries and my own. “You can…y’know…in me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t mind.”

His palm swept down my spine again, and curved possessively over my flank. “When I hurt you, Arden, it will be in a way I have chosen and can control.”

And to think he kept insisting he wasn’t the romantic type. I mean, yes, I was all for roses and chocolates, but there was something deeply endearing to me about a man who wanted to hurt you right.

“What,” I suggested hopefully, “if I kept my eyes closed?”

Caspian made this sound—I couldn’t tell if it was more exasperated or more amused—grabbed me around the waist, and flipped me over. “Happy now?”

“Yes.” I tried to de-flail my limbs and arrange myself somewhat sexily, which was actually kind of difficult when I couldn’t see. And was right in the middle of my own wet spot. “It’s better like this.” Awkward pause. “Isn’t it?”

This time his soft laugh was nothing but fondness. His fingers brushed my lips and then the tip of my nose. Tweaked at my nipple rings. Traced the tattoo at my hip. “Much.” He tapped the inside my knee. “Now show me what’s mine.”

“All of me is yours.”

Heat was trickling over me. Gathering in the places I thought he might be looking. Considering less than a minute ago I’d been lying in a wobbly heap with my arse in the air, it shouldn’t have felt any more exposing to spread my legs on command but somehow it did.

Didn’t stop me though. And, actually, made my cock perk back up. I just never know when to quit, that’s my problem.

He gave a rough growl. And presumably got back to his masturbating.

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