Page 35 of The Runaway Billionaire's Inconvenient Baby
He sits up, his lips glistening, and I pull him in for another kiss, salty like the sea. “I want you,” he breathes. “I need you.” I let my hand drift down to feel his hardness bulging in his pants, and my heart skips a beat at the thought that I’ve done this to him.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Please.”
“I don’t have protection, though,” he says haltingly, like he’s turning into an awkward teenager again.
I shake my head. “I’m on birth control,” I say. “It’s good for my hormones. We’re safe.”
“You’re sure you want this?” he asks.
“I’ve never been this sure of anything.”
We kiss again, and this time, I help him shed his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt and unzipping his fly. The sight of him should be intimidating, but it’s not. It just sends a flash, another wet flash of desire to my core. I’m giddy with the excitement of all of this.
I shuffle around again and decide that getting on my hands and knees is the best way to avoid sand getting in places I don’t want sand to be. Before, I could use my skirt as a blanket, but with how hungrily Jacob’s looking at me, I don’t think that’s going to last much longer. His fingers run over the bare skin of my backside, making my flesh prickle, and I gasp when I look back over my shoulder and see the look of desire and awe on his face.
Slowly, he lines himself up behind me, his hands gripping my hips, my legs trembling with excitement. “You are so gorgeous,” he breathes and slides in, filling me to the hilt.
I cry out, thankful again that there’s no one around to hear us. Even if there were, the rush of the waves against the shore masks both of our moans and shouts, water crashing down on the sand as we collide, two becoming one.
CHAPTER 18
JACOB
For a second when I wake up in a comfortable bed, I think I’m at home and that the nightmare of the inn is far behind me, but the bright sunshine and morning birds tell a different story. I’m in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar house, in a bed that smells like clean linen and sea salt and sex, without any clothes on.
Slowly, as consciousness returns to me, the memories of last night fill in; of watching the sunset in the cave, of kissing Billie, of indulging our wild fantasies.
She’s not the girl I was looking for. Hell, I thought she hated me. But last night, after we finally caught our breath in the cave, she walked me back to her house so we could fall into bed all over again.
If that was hate sex, then she can keep hating me.
But I don’t think it was. I saw the look in her eyes every time I complimented her, that look that wanted to saywhat, me?The look that told me she didn’t quite believe that I could really think those things about her.
Beautiful Billie. She’s spent so long helping everyone else that she’s forgotten she’s as worthy of love as all of them.
If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to help her learn that all over again.
There’s a sudden and loud crash in the kitchen, and I realize that’s where she must be. I’m still waking up and it takes me a while not to be groggy and bemused by the world, but I feel bad just lying here while Billie has probably done half of her daily tasks already.
And she probably has coffee downstairs, so I force myself to get up. I pull on yesterday’s shirt and pants and try not to grimace at how unclean I feel, then groggily make my way downstairs.
She looks radiant and alive as she stands at the stove. I wasn’t paying any attention last night, but her home is wonderful. It’s not big, but it has everything she needs. The kitchen’s decorated exactly how I would expect — vaguely ocean-themed, funny sayings on woodcuts, tastefully mismatched plates. The window is open and a faint breeze blows its way into the kitchen, catching the long white skirt of her dress and making it billow around her legs. Her hair is tied up in a loose ponytail, and she has on some music that she’s humming along to, some pop singer I’ve probably never heard of.
She looks utterly content in her own little world.
I cough gently to get her attention, not wanting to look like I was sneaking up on her. She turns to face me and smiles. “You’re not a morning person, are you?”
I shake my head. “Only when I really, really have to be.”
“Coffee?” she offers.
“You’re a saint,” I say.
She points at the kitchen table, at one of the rustic-looking wooden chairs, and obediently, I sit. Then she turns her back on me again to return to the kitchen counter and pivots around with a steaming hot cup of coffee. “For you.”
“This is the same stuff you have in the cafe?” I ask, dizzy from the delicious smell floating toward me.
She nods as she puts the cup down. “It’s a secret blend.”
