Page 33 of Playboy Billionaire's Fake Marriage

Suddenly he stands, taking me with him and bending me over his desk. I whimper as my over-sensitized nipples drag across the polished surface. He pulls off my shirt and then his fingers run all over my back.

“Gorgeous” he marvels, admiring my tattoo. “You’re fucking made for me, Stella.” He keeps my legs far apart so that every clench of my pussy drives my relentless need to feel him inside me. The sound of his zipper makes me tense with anticipation.

If all his twenty-eight cousins walked into the room right now, I don’t think I’d care.

He fists on a condom, grasps me by my nape then, and notches himself against my entrance. I realize I’m shaking with need, goosebumps all over my skin. I just had an orgasm, yet I’ve never wanted a man inside me this badly.

Still, he waits. “Stella, are you—”

Ready? Sure? “Yes! For God’s sake will you just fuck me!” I snap, unable to keep it together any longer.

He laughs. I’m about to send him a snarky retort about his laughing, but my mind goes blank as he surges into me all the way to the hilt. I bite my lip to hold in what would have been an embarrassingly loud moan. My fists clench repeatedly, mirroring what my pussy is doing around his girth right now. “Ryan, oh God,” I shiver.

“What is it?” His steady, detached voice irritates me.

“What, are you waiting for the lights to turn green?” My voice comes out breathy and not the snap I was aiming for.

Again, he chuckles. “Here we go then.” He pulls out most of the way then drives back in. Hard. I gasp. He does it again and again, picking up speed. In a few moments, I can no longer catch my breath in between thrusts.

I hear myself crying out but I can’t seem to stop. He feels too good. God, I really hope this room is soundproofed. “Oh, please,” I babble, unsure of what I’m begging for. I thought I wanted it fast, but if he doesn’t slow down right now, I might die of pleasure. I try my best to keep my voice down, but I can’t do anything about my legs which have started to tremble. Still, he fucks me hard.

As I near orgasm I start to crave more. I cry out his name, begging for something that even I don’t understand. My subconscious knows, though, because I reach upward to my nape, where his hand is holding me down, and grab at him, my fingers not quite encircling his wrist. That little bit of contact warms me, feel and thickness of his wrist. My fingers greedily trace the veins and muscles of his forearm and suddenly everything feels a hundred times more intense.

At the first ripple of climax, I slam my palm on the desk, gritting my teeth against the deluge of pleasure. He only grunts, thrusts a few more times deep and hard, and then he still as controlled as ever, plants himself deep.

“That’s it Stella. Let go. Come for me.”

I’ve never wanted a man’s weight as much as I want Ryan’s right this moment. His smell surrounds me but I want more. “Ryan,” I gasp, my other hand blindly reaching behind me for him, catching nothing but the tails of his shirt.

“Please. Touch me.” I whisper.

“What?” As he bends over me, a cool drop of liquid lands on my bare back. His sweat. It’s too much, the needing; I clamp down on his big cock, and I come. And come. Screaming.

I’m still twitching madly when he curls his arms around me and pulls me from his desk and right back into his lap without withdrawing from me.

What the fuck just happened?

I craved him so much that the feel of his skin and his sweat triggered another climax? I’ve lost my fucking mind. I already feel my face heating up in mortification.

“Do you want more?” He whispers, still hard inside me.

More!

I shake my head frantically even as my traitorous pussy clenches again. “No, I’m quite alright,” I croak.

“Okay, Stella.” He pulls out of my still-clutching core. Then, he stands me up so he can slip out from beneath me. He heads across the room to where I think the bathroom is, leaving me to collapse back into his chair.

I try like hell to process how I feel about what just happened.

I rake my hands through my messy hair. Then, as if just realizing I’m half-naked in a man’s office in Manhattan in the middle of a workday, I replace my bra cups back over my still-sensitive breasts and look around for my shirt. I freeze when I see the shirt, huffing out a sad laugh.

That right there is the problem I’ve been trying to wrap my head around.

My shirt is not crumpled on the floor, or hanging ten feet away where Ryan carelessly flung it. No. It’s neatly laid on the far side of his desk. While I was unraveling like a fucking tornado and begging for his touch like an addict, he might as well have been folding the laundry. I didn’t even hear him make a sound. Except when he laughed.

Now I understand why he would rather be with two women at once. He doesn’t do intimacy. Does the man even enjoy sex? What happened to him? I like to think I know men. But this one throws me.

On the surface, he seems like a passionate, outgoing guy, but Ryan Fairchild is a broken man who won’t make meaningful eye contact, touch, or kiss. And I’m supposed to spend six months as his wife?

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