Page 16 of Cinderella's Fling with the Off-Limits Billionaire

Jay would never know.

But she’d know. She’d know she’d done this one small thing for herself, an act of defiance that gifted her back her independence and freedom.

Excitement spread through her. Just down the corridor, he pushed open double doors into a palatial bedroom with a king bed in the center and more stunning views of Manhattan. “Wow,” she groaned as he dimmed the lights to about half brightness, then led her to the bed.

“Should I, erm, take off anything?” She asked, gesturing to her clothes.

“Definitely,” he agreed, his eyes darkening, so her pulse raced. She undid her jeans first and slid them down her legs, conscious of the way his gaze hungrily followed her movements, revelling in the power she had as she caught the bottom of her sweater and lifted it over her head, dropping it to the floor with a soft swish, so it landed on top of the jeans.

“Allow me,” he said, reaching behind her for the bra clasp and undoing it, his fingertips trailing over her back as he drew it away from her skin.

She shivered.

“Cold?” He asked solicitously.

She shook her head.

He smiled, then slipped his fingers into the waistband of her underpants. Adrenalin fired through her veins. The intimacy of this was bone-melting. She waited as he slid the pants down over her hips and to her ankles, where she stepped out of them.

“On the bed,” he said, voice gruff.

She sat on the edge of it. His expression took her breath away; he was so commanding and so fascinating. “No, on your stomach. Lie down.”

“Right, a massage,” she murmured. With a little self-consciousness, she turned onto her stomach, resting her cheek on the back of her hands, which were clasped in front of her.

“Stay there.”

He disappeared for a few moments, but she saw his reflection in the windows when he returned, stripped down to his boxers and carrying a pale tube.

“Moisturiser,” he explained, coming to kneel over her, one leg on either side of her bottom. The moisturiser was cold on her shoulders when he squeezed it out. She made a yelping sound in response, and he laughed, but then he began to rub the cream around and he wasn’t laughing anymore. And nor was she.

It felt so good.

Not just sensual, but actually good, in the way massages were supposed to. His fingers had just the right pressure on her sore muscles to really feel as though he was doing something to help her bodily aches. He leaned forward, which brought his body lower, and his arousal—heck, he was so hard—nestled between the peachy cheeks of her bottom. She couldn’t help the way she writhed a little, backing up to be closer to him, needing more of that, as well as this massage.

He massaged her neck then, giving either side of it the same treatment, before returning to the top of her back, but this time, he worked right to the sides, letting his fingertips dip down and brush against the sides of her breasts, so she trembled all over. Then lower, to the small of her back and lower still, to the top of her buttocks.

Heat was building inside Skye. This was no rushed pretense of a massage to get to the sex part. It was elongated, incredible foreplay all on its own.

“Leandro,” she groaned, as he rubbed her cheeks with his thumbs. “Please.”

His hands stilled, then moved to her hips. “Turn over, Skye,” he commanded, and he lifted himself up just enough so she could roll onto her back. Looking up at him was like being blinded by the power of the sun. She hadn’t forgotten how beautiful he was but, in this moment, he looked even more so.

Her cheeks were flush from the way he’d already made her feel. She wasn’t even sure she could take much more of this…but then he turned those skillful fingers to her breasts, kneading her with just the right pressure to make her whole body sing.

His arousal was between her legs now, at her sex, and he moved his hips a little, pressing harder there, then softer, stimulating what it would be like when they came together. And oh, how she wanted that. The air in the room was cool, but that didn’t matter: her whole body was burning up.

“You’re so—this feels—,” she couldn’t finish the sentence. His cock was hitting her most sensitive nerve endings and the pleasure from that combined with the feeling of his hands on her breasts was tipping her towards a crescendo already. “Leandro,” she called out into the room as white hot pleasure exploded inside of her. “Oh, Leandro!”

He spoke in Italian, low and soft, then brought his mouth down to kiss her, drinking in her cries, her passion, her need and enthusiasm, removing his shorts at the same time, so now when his arousal connected with her body, it was just him and her and everything she wanted.

She was just about to cry out, to beg him to take her, when she remembered protection. But no sooner had the thought sliced through her than he pulled away, as if their minds were completely in sync, and reached for the bedside table. He removed a row of condoms, tore one open with his teeth and unfurled it over his—holy guacamole. He was huge.

Huge.

She stared at him, her heart in her throat, her whole body torn between excitement and concern. Because how could she possibly accommodate that?

But then he was kissing her again, and his kisses made everything feel so organic and natural, and made worrying seem totally irrelevant, so she wrapped her legs around his waist and drew him towards her, needing, more than anything, to feel him fill her.

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