Page 294 of The Billionaires

JANE

“Put me on the bed,” I say breathlessly as Adrian carries me into the obscenely luxurious honeymoon suite. “I don’t trust myself to stand.”

Yep. My knees are wobbly, and not just because of the buzz from the champagne. I’m overdosing on dopamine and oxytocin, and it’s all Adrian’s fault. It was bad enough when he’d touch me, or dance with me, or smile at me, but being carried like this, pressed against his rock-hard chest and enveloped in his strong arms while breathing in his deliciously masculine scent, makes me swoony in a very real way.

The bed must be of the Alaskan King variety—a nine-foot square that could comfortably accommodate a dozen of the tallest NBA players… even if they were to have an orgy with their tallest counterparts from the WNBA.

Very gently, Adrian sets me down at the edge of the bed, right onto a thousand roses’ worth of petals.

Yes, petals—and they’re not the only honeymoon accoutrements scattered around the room. There are enough candles to create a major fire hazard, enough chocolates to give even the healthiest person diabetes, and enough heart-shaped balloons to lift an obese elephant.

It’s all uber romantic and beyond my wildest GD wet dreams.

To put it another way, it’s the universe taunting me with the fact that I’ll stay a virgin tonight.

Gulping in a breath, I detect the smell of incense—and that combines with the aroma of the flowers to spin my head even faster.

Adrian starts to straighten, but our eyes lock.

Uh-oh.

Must look away.

Can’t.

By Jove, I seriously can’t tear my eyes away from him.

My infatuation must be obvious, but he’s not looking away either. In fact, his gaze is rapt, and a muscle in his jaw twitches—begging me to lick it. And then nibble on that sharp cheekbone before I?—

Mrs. Westfield firmly believes that one ought not to take certain liberties, even with one’s husband.

Overcome by an irresistible impulse, I clutch his tie like a chlamydia-free koala grabbing a hold of a eucalyptus tree. My brain gives my arm a brazen command to pull Adrian down, but before the arm can execute said command, Adrian makes his move—probably because otherwise, he’d lose his license as a rake.

His mouth swoops in like a bird of prey, and his hands land near the bodice of my dress.

Yes!

All thoughts flee my head, and I lose myself in the kiss, aware only of the sweetness of the wedding cake on his breath and something very masculine that is purely Adrian.

The sound of silk and lace ripping thunders through the room.

He ripped my bodice!

Like in the best romance novels.

Holy smokes. Could it be? Am I finally going to get my GD?

It sure seems like it.

Adrian deepens the kiss, his tongue penetrating my mouth, giving me a prelude of the marital act as his hands slide down to my destroyed bodice, freeing my breasts and making my nipples tingle at the rush of cool air.

Please, for the love of all that is sacred about the institution of marriage, let him continue. If he stops, I shall go mad.

He doesn’t stop. He kisses my neck, then slides down, capturing my hard-as-a-diamond nipple in his luxurious mouth.

A moan escapes my lips.

Growling low in his throat, Adrian yanks the ruined dress from my body in several impatient tugs before lifting his head to stare down at me.

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