Page 100 of The Billionaires' Gamble
Opening the group text, now labeled ‘In Bros We Trust,’ I fire off a note.
Kingston: any movement on Wildfire’s apartment? she’s missing her stuff.
And before I forget, I send a text directly to Alex.
Kingston: what’s the story with Carpenter?
“Pizza or scallops?” she asks when I hit the bottom step.
“Hmm…” I sidle up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. “Well, scallops are yummy, but they require babysitting.”
We tend to get a bit distracted, even when we’re cooking. Plus, fire and boats don’t mix.
She gives an agreeable hum.
Is she thinking about the first time we tried to cook ourselves dinner? Pizza somehow seemed easy-ish and fancy enough.
It looks like a heart, she murmured, staring at the dough we’d massaged within an inch of its life.
Doesn’t bother me, I’d replied, because it honestly didn’t. My masculinity wasn’t affronted because of a romantic symbol.
Needless to say, we burned the pizza and had to order in, which was probably for the best. Given how green we were to cooking and pizza-making, the crust would have been tough.
“Are we going to burn it this time?” she asks.
“If we do, we’ll cook the scallops.”
I step out of her way so she can open the small refrigerator. Because this is the Mediterranean, the cheese is fresh, the tomatoes delicious, and my mouth is watering by the time she gets everything set out.
“I’ll try to stay out of the way,” I say, because let’s face it, there’s not a lot of space in here.
I don’t mind. It just means I have an added excuse to get my hands on her all the time. Smirking to myself, I pour her a glass of Chardonnay, then grab a bottle of water.
“You could help.”
“Yeah?” I press up against her, my heart settling because I’m finally right where I’m meant to be.
She wiggles her hips against my crotch as she sprinkles flour across the small section of countertop. Things are tight on my little sailboat, which, as far as I’m concerned, just means we have to get cozy. Up close and personal.
I skim my hands down over her hips, so tempted to flick the annoying-but-sexy bikini bottoms out of the way. We’re inside now. She doesn’t need to wear clothes.
I swear we’re sharing a brain because she widens her stance. I don’t think it has anything to do with keeping her footing as the boat bobs in the water.
Ghosting my fingertips up her thighs, I absorb her shudder, then sink the fingers of my right hand beneath the elastic and spandex.
Moaning as my fingers graze her clit, she gives up all pretense of making dinner and splays messy hands against the countertop.
“Like that?”
I know she does. Her skin is on fire. She drops her head back against my shoulder, and all the while, I just keep teasing her. Already, she’s so fucking wet I could easily shove my dick into her.
“Mhmm.” She gives a needy whimper, chasing my fingers with her hips.
I nip the skin between her neck and shoulder. “Hold still, Wildfire. Let me make you feel good.”
“So good.”
“You’re going to feel good all over my fingers, aren’t you? My pretty girl. So needy.”
