Page 193 of The Billionaires

Bruce picks up Colossus and gets his face licked. “Do you think he just wanted attention, was jealous, or”—he chuckles—“was protecting me from a perceived attack?”

I shrug. “It looks more like he smelled oxytocin in the air and got curious about it. Maybe even wanted some too—hence the licking of your face.” Lucky little bugger. I’m certainly a little jealous of that.

He puts the dog back on the ground. “If this becomes a problem, can you teach him not to butt in?”

“Sure,” I say, my breathing speeding up. “We’d have to kiss a whole bunch as part of that training.”

He smirks. “That can be arranged.”

Okay. Here, right now, is my chance to ask him what is going on between us, but then again, it’s his birthday, and if the conversation goes south, I will have ruined it.

Yeah. Postponing the talk. Maybe I’m not so brave after all.

“You think he’s done?” Bruce asks after Colossus doesn’t lift a leg on a bush that’s so perfect for that purpose even I’m tempted to pee on it.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “The tank is empty. Let’s go back.”

And if it means we end up in Bruce’s bedroom sooner, all the better.

Without discussing it, we half-run on the way back—which doesn’t help my already-crazy heartbeat. On the way to the bedroom, the puppy falls asleep in my arms again, so I deposit him very gently into his bed when we get there and thank Anubis he didn’t wake up.

Now what? I’m not sure if the last remnants of alcohol have left my system or if it’s the reality of the bedroom, but I’m feeling a lot less brazen all of a sudden, which is why I blush as I ask, “Should we watch the TV show?”

Eyes gleaming hungrily, Bruce responds by lifting me off my feet and carrying me to the bed.

Oh, my. He pulls off each of my long boots, then dispenses with my breeches and girdle before finally peeling off my panties.

“Wow,” Bruce purrs. “I’ve been dreaming about tasting you.”

I turn crimson, but I don’t fight it when he spreads my legs. The birthday boy can eat anything he wants—and as loudly as he wants since I’m not the one with misophonia.

He starts with featherlight kisses around my clit—an act of pure evil because it makes me want him on my clit.

As if psychically in tune with my desires, Bruce kisses where I so desperately want, barely touching it at first, then harder, ending in a solid smooch that makes my fists ball into the sheets.

He escalates his ministrations to a tiny lick.

A moan escapes from somewhere deep inside me.

I’m not sure how, but I feel his satisfied smirk against my pussy, followed by a stronger lick.

Yes. Please. Like that.

I must yell that out loud, or he’s being a psychic again, because his next dozen or so licks are the same, and it’s pure bliss. An orgasm begins to coil inside me as an unbidden moan escapes my lips.

Encouraged, Bruce does something I’ve never felt before—and redefines the term “clever tongue” in the process. It feels as though he’s somehow enveloped my clit with his tongue.

With a cry, I break into little pieces of pleasure, then reconstitute back around his genius tongue.

“Your turn,” I gasp when my senses return.

Now that I think about it, we should’ve started with him—it’s his birthday and all.

In a move straight out of Magic Mike, Bruce rips his pants off, unleashing Titan.

“Commando?” I gently brush the tips of my fingers along his impressive length. “That’s on theme.”

“No,” he grunts. “The real Geralt would wear braies.”

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