Shopping for a Billionaire 3 (6 page)

Like a paint-by-numbers project, here c
omes
my dignity in a lovely shade of
purple
. Blue st
ands
for confidence.
Rich red
for clarity. A
sedate
adobe represent
s
patience, and
green
i
s the color of hope.

Declan’s eyes.

“For what?” he ask
s
as he h
olds
the car door open for the (of course) waiting limo outside the restaurant.

“For that.” I thumb toward the restaurant,
half expecting to see Steve’s distorted face pressed against the plate-glass window. “Um, how much did you hear?”
 

“You mean the part about his tiny penith and his huge ego? Because that was great.” A half-grin and hearty laugh follow. “‘Penith’ will never not be funny.”

Declan’s hand is on the limo handle when I realize—my car!

“Wait. I drove here,” I explain, a sinking feeling hitting me at once.
Practical Shannon. How would I get home if Price Charming sweeps me away on his mechanical steed?
 

“Turdmobile?” he asks. A passerby gives him a funny look, staring at the limo with one eyebrow cocked.

“Yep.” I look over at the parking lot where I stashed the damn thing.
Even mixed in with a bunch of late-’90s junkers, the car stands out like my mom at a Submissive Wives conference.
 

“I’ll bring you back,” he says, opening the door.
Declan slid
es
in next to me, shutting the door with a sound that sen
ds
a thrill through me. We are hermetically sealed in the cool leather, the divider firmly up so that all we are is a man, a woman, and a bunch of alcohol in the back of a car bigger than most dorm rooms.

“
Thank you again.”
 

“That was nothing.”

“That was
everything
.”

The ferocious, feral nature of the kiss he gives me before I can
finish
say
ing
the final word tears away at any restraint I pretend to have. As h
is
mouth devours mine, his hand slides up under the thin cotton skirt I’m wearing.

“Mmmm, skirt,” he says against my lips.
Apparently my flesh has the ability to make him lose entire grades of vocabulary. Who knew?
His fingers take advantage and slide right up my quivering thigh. He’s not teasing.

He’s very, very serious.

Today is not supposed to be the day.
That day
is supposed to be carefully planned, with roses and good food and wine and a carefully manicured Shannon.
That day
should involve a giant full-body waxing session, a few pokes in the eye with Mom’s mascara wand, and a trip to a lingerie shop filled with self-loathing and best-friend reassurance that spending $200 on pieces of sil
k
Declan will tear off my body in seconds is totally worth it.

Right now? Here? I have
leg
stubble that is coarser than snapped pine tr
e
es after an ice storm. My lady place hasn’t been trimmed in so long it looks like Malco
l
m Gladwell’s hair. Small woodland creatures probably make their home in there, and while I did (thank God) shower this morning, it’s not like I thought my cobwebs would need to be cleaned out today.

Of all days.

He’s
breathing slowly
against me, body curled up and over mine, hovering and so…male. Being wanted like this by a man who is the undisputed leader in any given room full of penises is a turn-on, and my mind shuts off as the body takes over, his fingers making that all too easy as he finds my throbbing center.

Oh, he really is a god after all.

The way he strokes me, slow and deliberate, as his tongue works in concert with his fingers,
m
y mouth and sex both wet and wild, bri
n
gs me to the edge so fast. I’m so ready.

I want him so much.

The car pulls away from the curb and I giggle as we lurch, his erection pressing into my hip. His face is dark with want. I’m wet with need.
We’re a match made in limo.
 

I undo his pants and reach in to grip him, the sharp hiss of air sucked in through his teeth my reward. I pull his pants down enough to look and see what I never got a chance to gaze at before we were so rudely interrupted by the Bee Who Nearly Killed Shannon.

He’s beautiful. Thick and veiny and big, skin soft and vulnerable.

“
I didn’t break your penis after all,” I say. I can see a tiny puncture mark with a fading bruise, though, just an inch or so away from the base of him. If I’d been just slightly off…
 

“No, you didn’t. But maybe you will tonight. In the best of ways.” His hands roam over my back, skimming the surface of my skin, then pressing with more urgency.

I
laugh, a sound of anticipation.

“Are you evaluating me? Am I aesthetically pleasing?” he asks in a throaty chuckle. “
Do you h
ave your app ready to write up your review?”

My answer is to release him and push him back against the seat. I throw one leg over his lap and straddle him, settling over his unleashed self, the thin cotton triangle of my panties the only thing keeping us apart.

“You’re part of a new project. The Shopping for a Billionaire Project.” I wiggle just enough to make him groan.

His hands slide under my sh
i
rt, cupping my breasts, and with a grace that makes me moan he unclasps my bra and wraps those big, strong palms around my breasts.

“How am I doing so far?”

I make a noise of contemplation. “Eh. Six out of ten.”

He arches one eyebrow, clearly displeased. “Six? I do
n’t
do
six.”

I wiggle against him, the shaft sliding along my nub, making my next words come out with a quaking tone. “No, you’re no six.” I close one eye and slide up, shivering. “Maybe seven?”

H
is abs tighten, shaft lifting just enough to make little light bursts appear, somehow making an entrance in my open-eyed vision.

“
Six?
Let’s go for ten,”
he insists.
The snap of my panties registers for a second as a sharp, cutting pain against one hip
as he rips them off me
. All that separates us now is something deeper than decency.

Declan senses it, too, and shifts just enough, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. The condom appears and he puts it on as I watch his hands, his face, marveling at the unreality of the moment.

Yet it feels more real than anything I can fathom.

He guides me back into his lap and I settle my thighs around his hips, his tip at my entrance like a beacon, mutual throbbing making a pulse that joins two rhythms.

And then he’s in me, kissing my neck, pulling my shirt up over my he
a
d, bra hanging from a door handle and he thrusts up into me, thumbs on my nipples, my body burning for more.

More more more.

The thrill of his fullness in me, of the movements as he kisses me, slow, languid kisses so lush and patient. The kind of kiss you give someone when you mean it. When you want to be with them.

When they’re enough.

More than enough.

“I have wanted you since the first time we met,” he says, serious and breathing hard, his hands on either side of my face, eyes lasered in on mine. A shock of hair falls over his forehead and the day’s beard give
s
him a rakish look, even as he’s tender and loving.

“You rivet me, Shannon. You make me want you more than I want to be in control, and no woman has ever done that. I abandoned a merger negotiation
in New Zealand
because I kept looking at our text stream and wondering why the fuck I was settling for pictures of you when I could be inside you.”

Oh!

I don’t have any words. He hammers his point home and I gasp, tightening.

He groans, breaking our gaze, pulling me in for a kiss that tastes like promises and desire.

“I needed you. Need you. Nee
d
this,” he says, pulling his hips back, clenching his abs, then sliding back up, making me pitch my head back, the sensation too immense to take in just th
r
ough one part of me. My arms, my face, my flushed skin,
it
all feels like it’s part of Declan, and he’s part of me, and we’re both part of the sky, the clouds, part of everything.

“I need you, too, Declan,” I say as I tip my head back down and unbutton his shirt. The feel of his hot skin as I skim my palms across his pecs makes me wetter,
the heat from our coupling like my own star, bright and radiant. “I can’t quite believe this is happening. That you’re with me. That we’re here.”
 

“You’re hot and warm and tight,” he groans. I pull in, making my core strong, and he makes a primal sound that is both threatening and satisfying.
I made him do that.
Me
. His thumbs caress my hips and I surge for a second, shivering with a quick tingle. A moment of self-consciousness kicks in as his hand caresses my belly under my skirt, thumb pad stroking down again to find the spot I want him to touch the most.
 

But the palm across my belly makes me think about my curves. My abundant flesh. My…
extra
.
My
too much
.
 

He frowns, watching my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The word comes out breathy and forced, like a che
e
rleader whose leg fell off but she’s in denial, still completing her program.
Damn it
. Don’t do this, Shannon. Don’t ruin it.
You would think I’d have felt this way when we were at the park, or the first time we kissed, or the times he’s touched me intimately, and yet – no. It takes being in a limo, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and status for me to feel this sense of inadequacy, quite suddenly.
 

I
know exactly why, and it sucks.

The first time Steve ever hinted that I might not be good enough was, of course, in a limo. My junior year in college and we were on our way to some business networking event. He’d evaluated me from top to bottom and found the cut of my dress “a bit outdated” and asked whether I’d been exercising enough lately.

I ate a small salad for dinner that night.

Declan cocks his head and stares me down, thumb stroking until I move involuntarily, the self-consciousness replaced by a growing wave inside.

“Tell me,” he murmurs.

“No—really.” The slow circles he tra
c
es in my most private flesh are like a language he’s transmitting through these maddening finger presses.

“Tell me,” he says again in a voice that makes it clear I can’t escape.

“It’s…my body.” As sunset
descends, the shadows outside pass by like a crowd in motion, except we’re the ones moving. The limo glides left, then right, and Declan and I float with it, micro-movements sending waves of grinding want through me as the pressure of his fullness in me touches little fragmented spots that send my body thrills I didn’t know I could feel.
 

“Your body is…” His voice drifts away as his eyes rake over me, methodical and appreciative. I’m not used to this. Sex is frantic groping in the dark, where I’m glad for the cover of the obscurity of darkness. What Steve or other lovers felt when they touched my skin was so much easier to handle than imagining them look at me. When they touched me under covers or in the grey night, I could just feel and enjoy.

I’m watching Declan look at me and feel my self-consciousness melt away, like
a
layer of skin that sheds gently. His eyes are hooded, filled with craving, and as h
is gaze
lands on my breasts I can almost feel him, his eyes like fingertips searching for truth and love.

“Your body is beautiful,” he says gruffly, as if contradicting someone who said otherwise. And, actually, he is. All the voices who tell me I’m imperfect. The moments when Steve looked at rail-thin women in public, or the
harumph
of telling a store clerk I needed a size sixteen.

The internalized, yappy-dog chatterer that has taken up residence behind my ear and that lets loose a steady stream of thoughts and feelings about my loose skin on my belly, the lush breasts that never fit quite right in my bra cups, the pants that don’t smooth neatly across my waistband, the thick, muscular calves that rub against the finely tailored wool of his pants.

That
voice.

“Beautiful,” he says with a tender thrust upward, pulling me down for a kiss. His tongue slides between my lips and he’s telling me again how beautiful I am, except this time with the topography of
his mouth. Yearning pours through me like molten lava and I’m fused to him, inside and out, as a wellspring of emotion overwhelms me.
 

“Who told you otherwise?” The sad tone that escapes between his lips isn’t sad for me. Carrying a distinct sound of disapproval, he’s correcting the distant critic who put it out there, the one who planted the seed of inadequacy inside me.

T
he guy who made me feel like I wasn’t enough – because I was a little too much.

“They were
wrong
.” The emphasis on the last word makes me shudder.

“Perfect and ripe and warm,” he whispers, making me melt more.

The feel of his tanned skin under my own palms, how his eyes seem so interested and captivated, the play of his words on those lips as he misses me and says more that I can’t really understand because oh—
oh!
—now he moves in a pattern that takes me to places where words are mere formalities.

Where sensation is the language of choice.

One finger trails a line between my breasts and he plants a kiss in the valley. “
You’re everything I want
,” he whispers, tension in his voice
stretching his words out as he begins his own tipping point
. He takes one pebbled nipple in his mouth and the rush of warm wetness makes me clench, which in turn makes h
i
m groan.