Page 52 of The Billionaire Experience

What happened next defied explanation. When his mouth covered her most sensitive part, all thought ceased. Her eyes rolled back into her head as he opened her thighs and laved her in earnest.

She was reduced to a mangle of bodily sensations. And the noises she was making—my God, she didn’t sound like herself. More like a desperate, pleading, naked woman who would give anything to orgasm at the hands of this man. She palmed the top of his head but there was no need to guide him. He dipped and weaved, bobbed, and dove in again, each strike to her clit like flint to stone.

She had no idea how much time had passed when she was suddenly overcome by a tidal wave of pleasure. Her legs shook, her eyes squeezed shut, and she went over in a series of shouts while her body twisted like a kite caught in a windstorm.

“Stop, stop, stop,” she begged anyway. She was sitting up, hands clinging to his head. She both did and didn’t want him to stop, but if he kept going, she might rip his hair out by the roots.

He finished her off with a single kiss and then sat up. She pressed her knees together when he wiped his hand over his mustache. She whimpered aloud when he licked his lips.

Brody Crane was sex on two legs. Able to make a woman forget her name and beg for more the moment she recovered. If she recovered… Reagan hadn’t expected an orgasm that powerful. He’d left her with ragdoll limbs and a spinning head. She was depleted in the best way imaginable.

He parted her knees and kissed the space between her breasts before lowering his hips to hers. “You taste good.”

“You have jeans on,” she said in response.

“A damn shame.” He kissed her nose, such an innocent thing to do after he’d laid waste to her. “You taste like the best dessert I’ve ever eaten.”

She hoped she was smiling, but there was no way to be sure. Her mouth muscles twitched, but the rest of her was a puddle of uselessness. She found the strength to whisper, “Take them off.”

He groaned. “I’m trying to be good.”

“Why?” She guessed it was her sincerity that made his throat bob with a chuckle.

“You’ve had a hell of a day. A hell of a week, I have recently learned. You didn’t have a bed to sleep on until I offered you mine.”

“That’s what I’m taking you up on.” She grinned.

“You agreed to live here five minutes ago. You’ve been through the emotional wringer. You haven’t unpacked yet. What kind of bastard would I be if I took you to bed tonight?”

“The best kind?”

His smile was patient.

She let out a sigh. Earlier in the day she’d made a pit stop at Ike’s house to gather her bags. They were currently leaning against the wall in Brody’s guest bedroom.

“I’ve given you a spectacular orgasm. I’m going to tuck you into bed, and then I’m going to install the TV. In the morning we’ll discuss my pants and whether they stay on or off.”

“Off,” she whispered against his mouth, trying to sway him. Apparently, his mind was made up. She could tell by the resolute bend of his eyebrows. “I can help with the TV.”

“I need something to do that takes one hundred percent of my attention off you and what I’m refusing to do to you.”

“So don’t refuse.” She fisted his shirt and tugged him closer, aware that her grip was weaker than she would have liked. He’d wiped her out with that, yes, spectacular, orgasm. She fought a yawn.

“Go to bed. Sail to sleep on a ship called Orgasm.” He kissed her mouth while she laughed at his ridiculous metaphor.

“Writer.” Her accusation preceded a yawn. Her eyelids might as well have been weighed down with cement blocks. From behind those rapidly closing lids, she became aware of him gathering her clothes. Next, he encouraged her to stand and then led her to the back bedroom.

She sat on the bed with an inelegant whump. She hadn’t slept soundly in a week, and it was as if every one of those lost hours had caught up with her.

How inconvenient.

“If you weren’t so fucking cute, I’d take my pants off.”

“I can be less cute.” She made a weak grab for him.

“No, Reagan,” he argued as he tucked her naked body beneath the sheets and kissed her forehead. “You can’t.”

Normally, Reagan was an early riser. But being gifted the orgasm of a lifetime on a billionaire’s sofa had been far from normal.

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