Page 6 of Curvy Girl for the Billionaire

I don’t want her to think this is fake.

Because it’s real dammit. These feelings I have for you, they’re realer than anything I’ve ever felt.

I know it’s fast, but I also know that I don’t give a flying fuck.

I’m not one to sit and overanalyze the fuck out of something. If something feels right, I go with it.

And sticking my dick so far up Charlie’s cunt that she’ll never remember another man’s name let alone his face is what’s going to feel right.

My cock twitches thinking about her pussy.

What it looks like…

What is tastes like…

I bet she’s sweet as hell.

Dammit!

A jet of precum shoots from my tip, and I can’t take it anymore.

I fist my hard cock and start stroking it up and down as I imagine Charlie naked.

Under me, writhing in ecstasy. Her eyes locked onto mine, heavy with lust, whispering my name like a sacred mantra.

The fantasy alone is enough to drive me wild, the thrill of conquest mingling with an unfamiliar urge to protect and possess.

I keep her image at the forefront of my thoughts. Every stroke is punctuated with the memory of her smile, the way she bit her lip when something amused her, the husky sound of her laughter.

It's maddening how vividly I can recall her every detail after just one night.

Maybe that's what genuine desire does to a man—brands every glance and gesture into his brain, making it impossible for him to think of anything else.

I groan as my climax builds, the culmination of all these pent-up desires about to explode.

With every pulse and throb, I imagine it's Charlie underneath me, not just my own hand.

I picture plunging into her depths, feeling her clench around me, hearing her gasp out my name in a mix of shock and pleasure.

"Fuck!" The word rips from my throat as I come hard, my seed spilling over my fingers in hot, white streaks.

I fall back onto my bed, panting heavily.

A surge of emptiness washes over me. It's hollowness, a craving unsatisfied, because it wasn't her wrapped around me.

It wasn't her breath hot on my skin.

The room feels colder suddenly, the sheets too smooth, too empty. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, resting my head in my hands.

The idea of using her as a decoy to satisfy the press and my ever-interfering family fills me with shame.

How the fuck could I even suggest that when all I want is to hold her in my arms and cherish her forever?

I’ve got to make this right.

But I don’t even know where to begin to start.

four

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