Page 47 of Damaged Billionaire Daddy
Then we were skin to skin up top. I could feel the hard ridges of his abdomen and chest. He had a light dusting of hair on his chest that arrowed down toward his pelvis. It was unexpectedly soft and teased my highly sensitized skin.
The arrow of hair redirected my attention below his waistband, where I could feel his penis, hard and ready against me. The feel of it woke an answering heat in me that instantly soaked the scrap of panty I had pulled on under the pajama pants.
Richard nuzzled my neck, placing tiny nibbling kisses onit, before lifting me so he could reach my breasts. He nuzzled the center, then nibbled over to the left one and took the nipple in his mouth. He flicked it with his tongue, then nibbled his way across to the other side, repeating the treatment.
His kisses left a damp trail across my chest. As he moved, he let in a blast of cold air that chilled that part of my skin, contrasting with the hot kisses he was placing on my stomach as he worked his way lower.
I tried to get my hands beneath his waistband, but he caught them, cradling them close in one big hand. “Not yet,” he murmured, “I want to nibble you like the sweet Kandy Kane you are.”
Hearing my grandfather’s endearment almost jolted me out of the mood, but then he reached the top of my pajama pants. Still holding onto my hands, he dipped his head under the covers, positioned his mouth over my mons, and blew out a slow warm breath.
Suddenly the satin pajama bottoms, mine and his, were a barrier between me and what I wanted. The rough lace of the take-me-off-now underwear rubbed against my now highly sensitized clit, making me anxious for all that he could offer and more.
He eased off the pajama bottoms, stopping to admire the panties and what lay beneath them. “I can’t believe you dye your hair blond when you are truly a glorious ginger,” he murmured, easing off the scrap of lace and satin. Then he bent over and used his lips and tongue to bring me to even greater heights of sensation.
“Not too fast now,” he said. “I want us to come together.”
I was with that program. I eagerly helped him remove his pajama pants and was delighted to find that he had gone commando beneath them.
I used my hands to explore him, discovering the sensitive places, and finally taking myown dive beneath the blankets to explore his length with mouth and tongue.
Even though we’d been at least two days away from civilized amenities such as a real shower, he smelled and tasted clean with a slight muskiness that was all male and deeply enticing. He seemed to swell more under my attention, and I accidentally scraped him with a tooth.
“Easy there,” he said. “I’m not a chocolate eclair.”
That made me giggle, which backed off the intense sensations a little. He pulled me up on top of him again, this time without the restricting clothing between us.
He kissed me again, then lavished more kisses on my breasts. He lifted my hips and gently set me down over his penis.
My body roared with sensation, and I nearly wiggled back off as I tried to find the right angle. Then we found a rhythm that worked for both of us and sent wave after wave of pleasure over me.
It seemed to me I could feel every ridge, every pulse of the veins in his swollen member. I could feel his rough pubic hair against my clitoris, and it drove me wild. I wanted more! I wanted him to fill me, to expand with me until our sensations filled the universe.
Something in the movie caught my attention, and out of the blue I asked, “Do you still want my grandfather’s vineyard?”
“Yes,” he replied, pumping harder. “He makes the best damned wine I’ve ever tasted. I’d be a fool not to want it.” Then he let out a hoarse cry that had nothing to do with speech, and everything to do with raw, primal pleasure.
My world exploded in the best fucking climax I’d ever had in my life, augmented and increased by his release. The crowd on the video recording applauded, and as he slowly deflated, a secret little bubble I’d begun to nurture poppedand the dream vanished like a soap bubble on a blade of grass.
I collapsed on his chest, then pushed myself up and punched him in the shoulder. He caught my hand, and gently rolled me over to tuck me up beside him.
“I hate you,” I sobbed. “I totally fucking hate you!”
“I know,” he said, doing that damnable breathing in my ear, giving me sensual aftershocks. “And I’m sorry.”
He held me then, while I sobbed out my misery. I felt ashamed, because his touch seemed so good, so kind and comforting.
Yet he was the one that seemed to be intent on shattering my world. It didn’t make any sense at all. I wanted him, but I needed to keep him away from my grandparents’ business.
I curled myself into a small knot of misery.
He kissed the back of my neck, gently massaging my tense muscles, whispering gentle promises that, quite frankly, I knew meant nothing at all. If I was smart, I would hop out of that bed, dress, and start walking down the mountain in the snow.
But I didn’t. Soon his gentle massage drifted lower. He began touching me, gently stroking my outer labia, my clitoris, then dipping his fingers into the core of me. My traitorous body responded with a savage longing.
He rolled me onto my stomach, then pulled me up onto my knees, and placed a pillow under my abdomen, all the while keeping up his assault on my womanhood. Tears ran down my face, all the while my body begged for him to keep doing what he was doing and to not stop. I think I said something like that. “Stop,” I said. “No, don’t stop. Because this is the absolute last time, we are doing this.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. And weirdly, he sounded as if he meant it. But I wasn’t sure what he was sorry for.
