Page 92 of Babies for the Big Shot
I arch into him, completely unguarded, as if shame has no hold on me, as if our bodies are meant to merge.
He chuckles, a deep, confident sound that should require a permit. Then he flips me onto my back with one smooth, commanding motion. Suddenly, I’m staring up at him, tousled and raw.
His eyes are half-lidded with sleep, but they burn with hunger. He’s focused on me with a fierce intensity, not just seeing me as the prize, but as an obsession.
“Fuck,” he growls, hovering above me, every muscle tense, every inch of him hard. “How the hell are you real?”
“Maybe I’m not,” I whisper, breathless. “Maybe you’re dreaming.”
“Then don’t wake me.”
And then he kisses me. Hard. Open-mouthed, filthy. There’s no patience in him, just tongue and teeth and hunger.
His hand slides beneath the blanket, up my ribs, curling around my breast. He knows exactly how to touch me and has no intention of stopping until I’m gasping his name again.
I moan into his mouth. He groans into mine.
Then his mouth is on my jaw, down my neck, over my collarbone, leaving a trail of scorch marks everywhere he touches. He’s murmuring filthy promises in that gravel and gunpowder voice of his, and my body is practically vibrating.
“You like being under me like this?” he murmurs, sliding his thigh between mine. “You like being taken apart before breakfast?”
I nod. Frantic. Desperate.
His mouth finds my pulse point and lingers there. “Good,” he says against my skin. “Because I’m not stopping until I hear you beg.”
I don’t even get the chance to form words. Not real ones, not words with weight or meaning. Only breathless, broken sounds that barely qualify as language.
Because Nick Ashford, CEO, ex-pro-athlete, ten-out-of-ten dirty talker, is already between my legs.
His mouth is back on mine, hot and bruising. His hand is still on my breast, thumb brushing my nipple in maddening, perfect circles that make my hips jerk up instinctively.
I swear he smiles into the kiss when he feels it. Clearly my need is just more proof of his power over me.
“Already so responsive,” he murmurs. “You ache for me, don’t you?”
I manage a shaky nod.
But it’s not enough.
“Say it.”
“I…” I try, but he pinches my nipple gently and my words collapse into a moan.
“Say it, Sara.”
“I ache for you,” I gasp. “Nick… please.”
That gets me a growl. Real and deep and animalistic. He bites down lightly on my collarbone, then soothes it with his tongue, apologizing with heat.
“Good girl.”
The words melt me.
He kisses down my body with soft pressure, his mouth tracing every curve and hollow. He pauses at my breasts, my navel, every inch of skin, treating it with care. By the time he reaches the edge of the couch, I’m breathless, barely holding myself together.
Then he pulls the blanket off with sharp force, removing any barrier between us.
I’m exposed beneath it, naked, open, still tender from last night. My thighs press together, aching with anticipation. I feel raw and unraveled, craving more.
