BILLIONAIRE (Part 1) (4 page)

Authors: Juliette Jones

BOOK: BILLIONAIRE (Part 1)

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Little mews of pleasure came from her mouth. She writhed under the sheet, displacing it. She opened her legs in a reflexive plead. For me. For this superhero between my legs that had never known such stamina. I could see the lave
nder-pink pleats of her pussy.

Fuck.

I was a fucking goner. I was whipped like nothing I had ever known. Just the sight of that moist, wanting flesh was enough to blind me, once again, to every normal consideration. I’d been a high-achieving, successful, responsible, Type-A paramour, sometimes more darkly than others, all my life. Every fucking second of my entire miserable straight-A millionaire – actually, as of last month,
billionaire
– life.

But
this
. This
girl
. She disarmed me. She made me want to fuck everything up. I wanted to dirty myself, and her. I wanted to feel what it felt like to not care about anything but the moment, because I knew that
this
moment would be so good, so incomparably fucking good that nothing else mattered.

I licked my way down her body, but I didn’t linger. I was too frantic to taste that sweet place that would swell and squirm and pulse under my tongue. I’d taken her to the shower sometime during the night, to wash my own scent away. I wanted her taste undiluted. And now, after a few hours of sleep, the scent of her had deepened into a humid, dewy musk. I almost lost it just
tasting
that, that feminine bloom, letting my tongue delve into the softness. Her willingness only compounded this overblown, excessive desire. Her hands were in my hair and she was lifting herself to my mouth, pulling me closer. I found the little nub of her clit and sucked it, playing it with my tongue, easing two fingers into her. I waited for her to relax into the invasion. I waited for her to come to me, to beg for more, slowing the lapping pressure of my tongue. Gently, I zeroed in on that tender bud, drawing it into my mouth with soft, cyclical pulls. Her moans and the clutch of her hands in my hair were driving me mad, but I reminded myself who I was. A control freak. An accomplished, driven, intensely disciplined man. A few soft moans of a willing woman should hardly undo me. But then it began. Her hips swayed in a back-and-forth rhythm. I slid my fingers deeper and her pussy clasped tightly around them, sucking them into her body. She cried out my name.

I was mildly appalled with myself, with my reaction, how much I
loved
that sound. Of her, calling to me. Saying my name in that dreamy exhale, like I was a mythical god-like being she couldn’t believe. Like I was too good to be true.

I was about to come whether I was inside her or not. And there was no question I would enter her, take her, fuck her, make love to her. The semantics hardly mattered. All I knew was that
there was nothing more sacred to me at that moment than being inside her. Her climax was still happening. Her pussy was still clamping and spasming as I slid into the wet, welcoming constriction, driving into her and compounding her pleasure. If I’d cared about proving myself, of prolonging and lasting, the concern at that moment was inconsequential. That luscious, snug, pulsing embrace was so tight, so insistent, all my restraint was pulled from my body in silky, furtive tugs that left me no choice. This was ecstasy in its purest, most beautiful form. The release was complete and total. I fell willingly, succumbing entirely to the perfect bliss of her, beautiful as sin, absolute as death.