Page 40 of The Billionaire's Princess

I throw the door open, and there she is. Wearing that sexy blue dress. With her hair down around her shoulders and her eyes sparkling. And sporting a seductive half-smile that lights up her face until it shines.

My heart leaps, making my breath catch.

I don’t ask questions. When someone leaves a gift-wrapped and shrink-wrapped package of Benjamin Franklins on your front stoop, rings the doorbell and runs off, you don’t ask questions. You just thank your lucky stars and start unwrapping.

So that’s what I do.

I stoop just enough to wrap my arms around her waist, lift her straight up and swing her inside, nudging the door shut against the rest of the world and reveling in everything about her. Her triumphant laugh. Her warmth and strength as she presses closer and twines her arms around my neck. Her scent of lavender and the incendiary way she says my name, “Damon,” as though she’s already coming for me when I know this thrilling night is just getting started.

I carry her down the world’s longest hallway as fast as I can, the thunk-thunk of her heels as she kicks them off her feet urging me to go faster. Inside the bedroom, I loosen my hold just enough to flip the wall switch and light up the place with a few strategically placed lamps. No way am I missing the chance to see and appreciate every inch of this woman after I blew the opportunity the last time.

Then it’s over to the bed, where I set her on her feet and rip back the covers to reveal pristine white sheets that seem to be waiting for us. She doesn’t appreciate me opening any space between us and clings to my neck and shoulders the whole time, staring me in the face. I’m not gonna lie, it’s easy to get drunk on this avid attention. I’m not worth it, but I’m not going to tell her that. Not when she acts like the secrets of the universe are hidden behind my eyes, if only she can see that far.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

She hesitates, her color rising. “Did we imagine it, Damon? How good it was last time?”

This is the dumbest question imaginable, edging out Will you build this skyscraper for free? and Would you mind if I murdered you right now? by a mile.

“We didn’t imagine anything.”

I start to kiss her, but she cups my cheek and rubs her thumb across my lips, stopping me. “I’m so scared of you right now,” she whispers.

I tense, hating the implication that I’d ever hurt her. In any way.

“Why?”

She pauses to get her thoughts together, and those big blue eyes are all I see. Wide. Uncertain. Achingly vulnerable.

“Because I know if I give you an inch, you’ll take a mile. And I still want to give you that inch.”

Listen, no one ever accused me of being emotionally intuitive, sensitive or even thoughtful. I’m a real estate guy. I understand building shit, financing shit and marketing shit. That’s about it. So I have no fucking idea what she means by that. Only that it seems important to her. If she had the faintest idea of how she’s possessed my brain since the second I met her, she’d stop wasting her own precious time with the insecurities.

But if she wants to talk about fear, I know from fear.

I grip her head on either side, catching handfuls of that silky hair.

“You want to know what scares me?” I swallow hard, my throat tight. “You walking out on me again.”

Her eyes crinkle at the edges, hinting at a soft smile. “I’m not doing that.”

“Make sure you don’t. Ever.”

She shakes her head and pulls me in, thus ends the talking portion of the evening.

In my defense, I try to take it slow for her. My intention is to start out with one of those slow, gliding kisses, easing my way into her slick mouth with a few nuzzles and taking it from there. But her lips. They’re so fucking plump and delicious. And her voluptuous tongue is already easing its way into my mouth. Just to really make my brain explode, she hits me with a sweet little coo, one of those helpless sounds of female encouragement that can fell a man faster than an elephant tranquilizer dart.

With that, rational thought leaves the building.

I groan and tighten my grip on her head, roughly tipping it back the way I need it, because I’m dying here. Dying. I kiss her deeper. Harder. Cry out with shock and pleasure when she nips me. Nip her back and laugh when she laughs. Catch her mouth again because I can’t stand to let it go. Reach under her hair for her zipper. Stop because she’s got a lot of hair.

“Turn around,” I say, spinning her by the waist. Then she helps me shift all that hair over one shoulder, and I yank that zipper down to reveal her pale back with its dusting of coppery freckles, the band of her nude strapless bra and—be still my heart—the nude lace of her thong. I can’t get that dress off her fast enough, especially when she helpfully pulls her arms free, bends and wiggles that assin my face.

I can take a lot of things. Ass wiggling is not one of them.

I’m all over her, massaging and kissing my way down her back as that dress falls to the floor and she kicks it aside. And what do you do with a juicy peach of an ass like this? You stroke it. You squeeze it as you ease those unwanted panties down her legs and out of your way. You bite it.

If her squealing and squirming are any indication, she likes that. A lot. So I slide my fingers down and stroke the insides of her thighs. Then I stroke that hot pussy from front to back and lick her juices off my fingers.

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