Page 6 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

I opened lust-heavy eyes. Stared deep into his. Found words. Important words. Put them in a sensible order. “Anything you want.”

He pushed me gently to my feet. My legs had apparently gone all shaky.

“Strip,” he told me.

I couldn’t help glancing toward the front of the plane. When I’d offered anything he wanted, I hadn’t quite realized he’d take it right now.

“We won’t be disturbed.”

He sounded certain but I couldn’t shake the mental image of a horrified air hostess—did you get those on private jets?—finding me all naked in the middle of her day job. I liked performing for Caspian, exposing myself to him, but exhibitionism was not my thing. In fact, even the idea of casting some stranger in the role of nonconsenting voyeur was wang-wiltingly embarrassing.

“Arden?”

Oops. I must have been lost in my own head. “Um. Yes?”

His eyes met mine, pale in the silvery light that filled the cabin, and softly gleaming. “Will you trust me?”

It was the last thing I’d expected, somehow. I guess I’d thought he’d command me. Force me even. And I probably wouldn’t have minded. But I had no defense whatsoever against…against being asked. It was neither plea nor demand but God, it was intoxicating. And it slipped between the edges of my heart, twisting it open like an oyster.

“Yes,” I whispered.

The moment I said it, I knew I meant it.

And suddenly I found myself thinking about the story of Sir Gawain and Lady Ragnelle. Not that I was hideously cursed. Or that we were being forced into matrimony because the King of England had made a deeply spurious promise to some random woman he met in the woods.

But still. Caspian had given me my sovereynté.

And now I was ready to surrender it to him.

My hands were unsexily damp as I peeled off my T-shirt and it was only when I was wriggling my jeans down that I remembered shoes were a thing I was wearing. So I had to stop, with everything bunched around my thighs, and hop about for a bit. By the time I was finally done I was all warm and flustered and pretty much the opposite of attractive.

And so…so naked.

It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Caspian had seen me before—he’d fucked me for fuck’s sake, a bunch of times—but it had never felt like this. As if my skin was too thin and my heart too hot.

All I could think was: what if he’s laughing at me.

But no. When I managed to meet his gaze, there was no mockery in it. No exasperation at my failure to spontaneously launch into an alluring striptease. Just this fierce, glittery excitement, that was, in itself, exciting. Definitely worth getting starkers for at thirty-five thousand feet.

My cock, which had been retreating like it didn’t want to know me, was definitely back in the game.

Caspian held out a hand—the gesture slightly formal, the way you might invite someone to dance—and I took it instinctively, not really sure what to expect. Which was probably for the best because what happened next was…well, it wasn’t the sort of thing that happened in Jane Austen.

(Though maybe Fanny would do it to a penitent Henry Crawford.)

Basically, Caspian tugged me closer and…arranged me, I guess, over his lap. He wasn’t rough and I was a little dazed, so I wasn’t entirely sure how I went from standing to…not doing that.

Whenever I’d seen this type of thing in pictures or, y’know, porn, it looked a lot less comfortable, the subject hanging there, precariously balanced on tiptoes and fingertips. But Caspian got me up on the sofa and positioned over his thighs, letting me brace myself on my knees and forearms. It felt…natural, actually. Except for the part where my arse was cheerfully right in the air.

It was just on the bearable edge of embarrassing. The ideal mixture of exposure and arousal to make me squirmy. The worst thing was not being able to see his face anymore. I needed the reassurance that he was definitely finding this hot and not ridiculous.

At that moment, his palm glided over my upraised buttocks and I was suddenly too busy shuddering and moaning to worry anymore. Maybe it was the vulnerability of the position, but even that light touch was crazy intense—heat and pleasure spilling across my skin, along with a rush of rising goose bumps. His fingers followed, tenderly skimming the groove of my spine until he reached the taut plane between my shoulder blades and stroked me there. He found nerves I never knew I had and lit them up like stars, sharp and bright and sweet.

I couldn’t help wriggling. It was good, it was so good, being touched that way by Caspian, but also a little bit tormenty at the same time. I hadn’t realized something gentle could ache like something harsh, and it unhinged me a bit.

But then his other hand came down on the back of my neck, cupping my nape, all warmth and pressure and the promise of control, and the tension leaked right out of me, leaving me fizzy and liquid in his lap. He squeezed and I just gurgled in this pathetically eager way.

“Have I told you,” he murmured, “how bewitching you are?”

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