Page 62 of The Billionaire's Baby
"Arpad," I gasp, then sit up as he prowls into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. What the hell? I walk over, hear him moving around, then the sound of grunting, the wet slap of flesh against flesh. What the hell? Is he jerking off in there? And after he fucked me in the ass? What the hell is that all about?
I shove open the door and walk in to find him in the shower cubicle, dick in one hand, the other slapped against the wall. I watch his face in profile as he grunts, as he screws up his features, the tendons of his throat stretching as he swipes his hand from the base of his dick to the crown again and again. His movements are hard, brisk, unlike how I would have grasped him. No way would I have the strength, the almost cruel grip he has on his shaft as he continues to pump, up and down, and again.
I should look away, give the man his privacy… But what the hell? He’d been inside of me, and for some reason, he hadn’t wanted to come… Which still doesn’t make any sense to me. His shoulders heave and his chest planes flex as he drags his fist up his cock.
And somehow, I find myself moving toward him.
I step into the space between him and the shower wall, slip my hand around his, tip my chin up to meet his gaze, and stroke him with my fingers about his. His breathing grows ragged, color smears his cheeks, then with a low groan he comes, all over my breasts, my chest.
He continues to stroke himself, emptying out the rest of his cum on me. Then, still holding his dick in one hand, he rubs his cum into my skin, around my nipples, down my belly, in between my legs. And somehow, it’s as if he’s marking his territory. His actions are both crude and a turn-on, at the same time. Why is it that every filthy thing he does is so…primal, so sexy? It’s as if the mask he’s worn to face the world has been stripped off here, in a cabin in the middle of the sea. And we are only a man and a woman, trapped in a fight to survive… Not just the elements, but also each other.
He lowers his hands to his sides, then reaches behind me to turn on the shower. He turns me around, so the water pours over me. He scoops up some soap and washes me. His movements are quick and thorough. He washes my hair as well, then himself, before rinsing off the soap.
When he’s done, he flicks off the shower. Then steps out to wrap a towel around himself. He hands one over to me, then turns and leaves the bathroom. Huh. What happened? Why did he go all silent?
And after he’d taken my ass… And honestly, while it’d hurt… It had been intense. I could have sworn it had brought the two of us closer together… At least, so I’d thought. But apparently, it'd had a completely different effect on him.
I dry myself off, wrap the towel and walk out to find he’s gone. Instead, he’s laid out another sweatshirt and a fresh pair of his jeans. I slip into the clothes, then glance around. I need something to cinch around my waist so the jeans won’t fall down, but what? I open the closet and aha! I find what I’m looking for.
I grab the rope from the shelf, tie it around my middle and over my sweatshirt. It nips in at my waist and holds up the boxers.
Awesome. There’s no mirror to see how I look, but doesn’t matter. At least, I don’t feel naked. I pull on the socks he’s laid out. So, not the most glamorous of get-ups, but at least I am warm. Besides, the sweatshirt smells of detergent and is laced with that dark, edgy scent which is unmistakably his. It feels like I am wearing him… Not. Well, not quite, considering how quickly he’d pulled out of me and left.
I walk out and into the living room to find the space warm. A fire crackles in the hearth. Outside, it’s still raining, but in here, it’s warm and cozy. Only, I am not fooled. Whatever had taken place between us…is far from comfortable. And I don’t mean the sex…which was mind-blowing, despite the surprise of what he’d pulled on me. But hey, I’m no prude. I’d been curious to try anal… I wince as my butt spasms in response to the thought. Okay, so maybe not that soon again… But the experience had been mind-blowing, to say the least. And if the opportunity arises to do it again with this alphahole… I confess that I am game.
I head to the kitchen, and find him, once again, by the cooking range. He’s pulled on a sweatshirt, and pair of jeans; his feet are bare. Apparently, he doesn’t feel the cold. How could he, when the man radiates warmth like he has an built-in furnace or something? Besides, bare feet on this hot-as-F asshole… Uh, not complaining. They are strangely sexy, I’ll readily admit.
He stirs the contents of a pan as I close the distance toward him.
When he doesn’t acknowledge me, I sit down at the table. He pours out the mixture into two bowls, adds a dash of cinnamon, then places the oatmeal in front of me. He brings his bowl to the table, along with a container of sugar, which he places between us.
He spoons up his oatmeal, slides it into his mouth. He curls his tongue around the spoon and my core spasms. Moisture pools between my legs. What the hell? Why does the act of watching him eat, turn me on? Every muscle in my body is tense. All of my senses are honed in on him, all of my pores open and ready and willing to be touched by him.
"So that’s your game?" I burst out.
"Game?" He raises his gaze and the heat in his blue-grey eyes blazes. "There’s no game, here, Sparks."
"Then what was that?"
"What?"
I gape at him. Does he want me to spell it out? Seriously? Is that the kind of man he is? I frown. Not possible. My impression of him can’t be that far off. Not when my instincts say otherwise. And well… I make a living with my instincts. They’re the one thing I can depend on when nothing else makes sense. "Why are you so angry?" I cup my chin in my hand. "Why did you leave me like that on the bed?"
"Why not?" He spoons up more of the oatmeal, swallows. "You should eat yours before it grows cold."
I glance down at my bowl, then wince, "I don’t like oatmeal, I’m afraid."
He jerks his chin, "Taste it, at least."
I blow out a breath, then dip my spoon into the creamy mixture, and bring it to my mouth. The scent of cinnamon fills my nostrils. I taste it and the nutty taste of oats pop on my palate.
I must have made a noise of appreciation for his lips kick up. "Good huh?"
"How the hell do you turn an ordinary meal into such an..."
"Foodgasm?"
I frown, "I was going to say experience."
