Page 19 of Christmas with the Billionaire
I close the distance between us, my hands finding her hips through the soft cotton. Her breath hitches as I do what I please. I don’t speak again. My actions are my language now.
Leading her to the bed, the space between the door and the mattress feels like a marathon. Every step is a study in restraint. My fingers go to the hem of my shirt on her body, and I pull it up and over her head in one smooth motion.
A fresh wave of pink washes over her chest, up her neck. The longer I stare, the more I realize how true reality is. She is mine.
“On the bed,” I tell her, my voice a low rumble. It’s not a request.
She obeys, moving with a fluid grace that makes my teeth ache. She lies back, her brown waves fanning out against the white duvet, a stark, beautiful contrast. She is offering herself, and the trust in that gesture is a physical weight in my chest.
I stand at the foot of the bed and I stare, drinking her in. The elegant line of her throat, the perfect, soft swell of her breasts, the delicate dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
My cock, already half-hard from the climb and the sheer proximity of her, throbs in earnest, thickening against the rough denim of my jeans. It’s going to be hard all over again at this rate. It’s a certainty.
Her instinct is to hide. She brings her heels together, trying to conceal the very heart of her from my relentless study. The gesture is so innocent, so at odds with the demanding hunger coiling in my gut, that it makes me cruel.
“Spread your legs.” The demand comes out rough, grated. I know I shouldn’t be. I should coax, I should worship, but the only thing I want to do is pounce on this woman and get my tongue on her.
Hell, after what she just did to me, my tongue feels like it won’t be enough.
She doesn’t seem to mind. My rough tone doesn’t frighten her; it excites her. I see the flicker of response in her lust-filled eyes, the subtle tremor that runs through her thighs before she obeys. Slowly, like she already knows I like the tease, she lets her knees fall apart.
And there she is.
Her perfect pussy. Completely bare, glistening with her arousal, a slick, pink flower already blooming for me. The sight is a punch to the gut, a visceral shock that makes my mouth actually water.
Did she shave herself, secretly hoping I’d see her like this? That only adds another layer to this. This sweet woman, she wants me. I don’t know how or why, but we’re one and the same.
I have to swallow, my throat suddenly dry. She is so ready, so wet, and all of that is for me. The evidence of her desire is the most potent aphrodisiac I’ve ever known.
I can’t stand the distance any longer. I join her on the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I kneel between her legs, my hands sliding under her thighs, pushing them further apart, opening her wider to my gaze. I am relentless. I want to see every fold, every hidden secret.
All of thisneedsto be mine.
“Charles, please,” she whispers, her voice strained. “Hurry.”
A low growl rumbles in my chest. Hurry? Is she insane? “I’m not hurrying, Ellie. I want to enjoy myself.”
My eyes are locked on the slick sheen coating her inner lips. I have to touch it. I have to taste it. I reach down, my fingers hovering for a moment before I drag my middle and index fingers through her slit, collecting the proof of her need.
It’s hot. Slick. Perfect.
I lift my fingers, and her slick clings between them in a thin, translucent rope, a glistening bridge that makes my cock weep in jealousy. I hold it up for her to see, my eyes daring her to look away. “See what you do to me?” I murmur. “See how much you want this?”
Her eyes are wide, fixed on my fingers, her lips parted in silent awe.
I bring my fingers to my mouth, my gaze never leaving hers, and I lick them clean.
The taste explodes on my tongue. Divine. It’s her, a musky, sweet, and salty. A flavor I’d recognize in the dark, on my deathbed. “You taste like heaven.”
That’s putting it lightly.
I lower my head, dipping down between her thighs. My shoulders spread her wider, leaving no room for any bashfulness.
The first touch of my tongue is a flat, broad stroke from her entrance all the way up to the tight, throbbing bud of her clit. She cries out, her back arching off the bed, her hands fisting in the duvet. I groan against her, the vibration making her jump.
I settle in. This is my purpose. My life goal.
I eat her pussy like a man starved. Because I am. I devour her. My tongue delves inside her, tasting her deeply, before flicking back to her clit. I circle it, tease it, flatten against it, then suck it gently into my mouth. Her hips buck against my face, but I hold her firm, my hands pinning her thighs, keeping her exactly where I want her.
