Page 43 of Adonis: The Cost of a Billionaire's Heart
“We fucking did it!” Adonis’s masculine voice rang through the private jet as he popped the champagne. The cork hit the ceiling with a satisfying thud, and bubbles cascaded over the rim of the bottle, spilling onto his hand.
I couldn’t help but laugh as he poured the golden liquid into two crystal flutes. “Congratulations,” I said, accepting the glass.
His eyes shone with victory as he raised his glass. “Here’s to the best fake fiancée a man could ever ask for.”
I clinked my glass against his, trying to ignore the pang those words caused. Fake. Right. That was what this was.
The champagne was delicious—far better than what we had in Garrick’s office after they signed the deal—and went down too easily. One glass became two, then three, and I felt myself relaxing into the plush seat beside him. We’d kicked off our shoes, his tie had loosened, and somehow, the space between us had shrunk to nothing.
“Tell me something real,” he said suddenly, his voice low. His hand rested casually on the back of the seat, not quite touching my shoulder but close enough that I felt his familiar warmth.
“Like what?” My voice sounded breathier than I intended. It had to have been the champagne.
“Something. Anything.” His eyes held mine, and for once, they weren’t calculating or assessing. They were curious.
Maybe it was the bubbly, or perhaps it was the way he looked at me—like I was a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve—but I found myself talking about Mason. About his love for rockets and stars. About how smart he was, how thoughtful, and how he made me laugh even on my worst days.
“He’s an amazing kid,” he said when I finally paused. “And that’s all thanks to you, Sim. You’re an incredible mother.”
The sincerity in his voice unraveled me. I’d spent so long defending my choices, electing to be a single parent, explaining away the lack of a father, the modest apartment, the secondhand clothes, and day care subsidies. But he wasn’t judging me; he was admiring me.
I swear I didn’t plan to kiss him.
But then again, nothing about our week together had gone according to plan.
One look in his eyes—hungry and unexpectedly vulnerable—and every ounce of control I had slipped away. Our mouths crashed together like the inevitable collision we’d been dancing around since I’d woken up in his arms. I knew I said I didn’twant things to go further again, but I was only saying what I knew we both needed to hear. I didn’t fucking mean it.
His cotton-candy soft lips were hot and urgent, tongue teasing mine as he pulled me into his lap, arms wrapping tight around my waist like he never wanted to let me go. I straddled him without hesitation, my navy blue dress riding up my thighs as I pressed down on the hard length of him through his slacks. The contact sent a pulse straight through my core, wet and fiending.
He growled low against my mouth, a sound that vibrated straight through my core. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I broke the kiss just long enough to gasp for air. “Then show me.”
He gripped my hips and stood, lifting me like I weighed nothing. My legs wrapped around him instinctively, and I buried my face in his neck as he carried me to the private bedroom on board. My body burned with anticipation.
When he laid me down on the bed, he didn’t pounce. He looked at me—really looked—and for a heartbeat, there was something awed in his gaze. His thumb brushed my bottom lip. “If we do this again, I’m not holding back. You need to know that.”
I reached for him, curling my fingers around his shirt collar and tugging him down to me. “Then don’t.”
That was all it took.
His lips were on mine again, hungrier, demanding. His hands slid beneath my navy blue dress, palms hot and rough against my bare skin as he unzipped it, revealing more and more until I was lying there in just my bra and lace panties.
He kissed down my neck, tongue tracing the curve of my collarbone, nipping lightly at my skin as his hands worked behind me. My bra came off with an effortless flick, and then he just . . . stared. His eyes soaked in every flaw, every stretch mark,every tattoo, freckle, and mole. He didn’t allow me to fall shy under his gaze.
“Fuck, Simora . . .” His voice was low, ragged. “You’re fucking perfect.”
Before I could answer, his mouth was on my breast, tongue flicking over my nipple before drawing it into his mouth with slow, deliberate suction. I moaned—loud, shameless—arching up into the heat of him as his hand rolled and teased the other. His teeth scraped just enough to make my thighs clench.
He trailed kisses down my stomach, pausing to swirl his tongue into my navel before kissing my pussy through my panties and pulling them down in one smooth motion. He held my legs in the air like chopsticks, and I felt the cool air on my slick heat, exposed and dripping for him.
“Goddamn, you’re soaked,” he groaned, sliding two fingers along my folds, parting me slowly.
His thumb circled my clit with the lightest pressure, and I gasped, bucking up into his touch. He moved between my legs, pushing them open wider, and looked up at me from between my thighs.
“I want to taste you again,” he declared. “I want to write my name all over that pussy so you know it’s mine when you fall apart on my tongue.”
My breath stuttered in my chest. “Yes. Please, yes.”
