Page 60 of Faking it with the Billionaire
And not just as a friend.
I’m trying to bury those feelings, but the more time we spend together, flirting and talking, the more I see her for who she is, and I like it. I like her.
Fuck.
Did I screw up by pushing the fake relationship into a fake proposal?
Sleep eludes me. The clock on the bedside table taunts me.
My thoughts are entirely of Em.
Her body, her mouth. Her tongue teasing my cock.
Fuck, it’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. Having Emerson under my roof has been a distraction. The perfect titillating distraction who gave me the best blow job of my life until the guys interrupted.
I have wanted her since that night, but she’s been distant, and I’ve had to focus on my career and protecting my daughter, which means keeping Emerson at arm’s length. She’s here for Bristol, not for me.
Talk about complicated.
Because a part of me wants her here for me, and it isn’t a small part. It’s my dick, and it’s acting based on my heart, which is not the least bit logical for me.
I like Em, and I don’t want to screw things up because, like she said, I’m her boss. But it’s more than that with her. She’s not just my daughter’s private bodyguard. She means so much more to me, and she doesn’t have the slightest notion of how I feel.
Because I haven’t told her.
How can I, without screwing things up further? I’ve already made a mess out of what we have going on between us.
The clock reads half past three, and I’m not about to get any sleep when I’m restless and having thoughts of Emerson.
There’s only one way out of this mess. And my tenting boxers are indicating to me the obvious answer.
I keep my breathing as quiet as possible as I reach down inside and stroke my length. It’s hard not to picture Emerson when we were on the ice together. Except for this time, I’m in control of the fantasy, and I have her wearing nothing but my jersey.
And I mean nothing.
It rides up, barely covering that pert little ass of hers, and I want to steal a taste, push her up against the glass, and drop down to my knees to tongue fuck her. I’d show her what it means to be with a real man. A man who worships every inch of her body and takes her over the edge repeatedly.
That’s what she deserves, nothing less.
I imagine it’s her hand on my cock as I pump harder and faster. Her name spills past my lips as I try to stifle the urge to control myself.
My breathing is labored and heavy. I should flip on the ceiling fan and do something to drown out the sounds coming up from me in the stillness of the night. But I don’t care.
Let her hear me.
Warmth runs through my veins, and I wish it were her wet tongue on my cock or her tight pussy trembling around me.
I imagine her sneaking into my bed, finishing the job.
“Emerson,” I grunt, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand as I feel the flood of heat seep out of me.
But it’s only my imagination as I’m trying to catch my breath. My eyelids are heavy, and finally, sleep wins over, but for how long?
The soft patter of footsteps awakens me, along with the light streaming in through the curtains. It’s evidently morning. My alarm has yet to go off, but I’m certain it will soon enough. I roll over to ensure it’s off before it startles me or anyone else.
I stumble out of bed, use the bathroom, yank on my boxers, and then head into the hallway to make a pot of coffee.
Emerson’s gaze moves down my body. I neglected to put on anything else, half-asleep and too exhausted even to care. “You’re in your underwear,” she says, and her cheeks redden as she adverts her eyes.
