Page 8 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

I could barely breathe, my whole body strung tight and poised on his fingertip. “More?”

“That was just the warm-up.”

Chapter 3

Warm-up?

“H-holy shit.” I tried to imagine what else he could do to me—but my brain was dopamine dazed and came up blank.

He withdrew and his touch became soothing again, which I was pretty sure I didn’t want at all. “We can stop at any time. You’ve already given me more than—”

“No.” I flattened my forearms to the sofa and shoved my hips up. “Take it all. Take everything.”

For a moment, he was so still I thought he was going to say no or something. But then he shifted his grip from my neck, laying his palm flat across my shoulders in a way that felt both ominous and reassuring. And when he hit me this time, it hurt in such a real way that I heard myself say “Ow” in a ridiculously surprised tone of voice. It would have been funny—pain hurts, no shit Sherlock—but it was like his hand had knocked everything out of me except the capacity to respond. A few strikes later and even “ow” was gone. Instead, these breathy cries were being jolted out of me. Sort of like being expertly fucked. But not. But yes.

And it was relentless. His hand coming down on me to the rhythm of his choosing. This pain that was both in my control and out of it. I knew with a faith I thought I’d put aside when I no longer believed in fairy tales that if I told him to stop—if I really meant it—he would. And, sometimes, I almost wanted to. Not so much because what was happening was unbearable but because it was simply overwhelming. The pure physicality of it. The way he had me all pinned down and splayed out. The sweat and tears—oh wow, I was actually crying—stinging my lips. The sound of each strike, loud and clear and undeniable. A question demanding an answer given in suffering and submission.

And, God, did I give it. Gasping and sobbing and writhing under his hands. Begging incoherently for him to…fuck, I didn’t know what I wanted, only that I wanted to beg for the simple pleasure of begging. Knowing it would make no difference. That I could scream and cry and struggle and he’d use me however he wanted. And, for some reason, in my slutty little brain that wasn’t bad at all. It was awesome.

Liberating and sexy and scary and exactly what I’d longed for. It wasn’t like my fantasies—it was a lot messier and my reactions were more complicated—but it was way better. And weirdly, something I never would have imagined: how peaceful it would be, right at the heart of all that tumult. How safe I would feel. How cherished.

It made me arch into the blows, not welcoming the pain so much as everything it brought with it: adrenaline and intimacy and this deep sense of acceptance. Of being beyond strength or weakness or shame. And trusting it was okay to be there. That Caspian was with me.

That he had me.

I was so blissfully lost that it took me a moment or two to realize it was over. That the roaring in my ears was my own heartbeat. My knees slid out from under me I flopped into Caspian’s lap like a fish.

“Ohmigod.”

I didn’t know how long I lay there. Minutes, hours, ages of the world, while the sun tarnished and the stars fell.

Wow I was floaty.

When my breathing had steadied, and the sweat dried on my back, Caspian drew me up and gathered me to him. He arranged me so I was straddling him, my weight distributed away from my arse, which was a relief because even the air moving against it felt rough. But he could have knotted me into a pretzel for all I was capable of resisting right then. I was mercury between his hands.

Well, for the most part. My cock was very much the opposite of mercury. Granite or marble or iron. Something really fucking hard. I blinked down at myself, slightly bewildered at the sight I presented: impressively large and shiny-slick with precome, straining pleadingly from between my spread-wide thighs.

Caspian caught me gently by the chin and made me look at him. Maybe it was my state of befuddlement or the way the light was…doing something, but his eyes looked wet.

“Was I okay?” I asked, voice coming out all hoarse and excitingly abused.

For a moment, we were just gazing at each other, intense and awkward at the same time. If anything, he seemed shocked—a flush of arousal staining those flawlessly sculpted cheekbones of his.

“You…you’re perfect. Absolutely perfect. God, you have no idea.”

He leaned in and kissed me gently, almost reverently. I fully intended to be graceful about it but for some reason his lips on mine triggered a cry havoc reaction and I …attacked him. Turned what I’m sure could have been a beautiful moment into a tongue-tangling, teeth-clashing mess.

But he let me. He let me eat his face like a clueless teenager until everything was hot and slick and our mouths tasted coppery with too much kissing. The world was still kind of distant—out of focus even, a little bit photoshopped—but Caspian was everything real.

I clung to him, dug my fingers into him and my teeth, and he held me tight and didn’t flinch or try to calm me. I realized I was making desperate, throaty little mewls, almost as if he was spanking me again, but he took those too, giving me in return these soft, dazed gasps.

It was a bit shocking, actually. I’d got used to him being miserly with his sounds and restrained in his pleasure. But this was different. A glimpse of the man who had fucked my throat that night on a balcony in Oxford.

The man I had always known was there.

And wanted. Wanted to call mine.

It was me, in the end, who broke the kiss. Any more and I would probably have died of ever-increasing lust: a moth hurling myself repeatedly into Caspian’s, er, flame. I collapsed against him, panting.

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