Page 22 of Bride Bargain

He proves it, too, with every scrape of his teeth and merciless thrust of his cock. With the greedy way he holds me, squeezing tight, like he can never get enough, and the way he stares like I’m his own personal miracle.

Elliot Ramsay may not permit handshakes from strangers, but he’s more than willing to spank the side of my ass until my voice cracks. And he may not approve of messiness and sticky things, but when the wet, obscene sounds of our bodies joiningfills the penthouse, Elliot stares between my legs with primal, cave-man satisfaction.

“Fuck, you feel good.” His deep voice is ragged. Ruined. Elliot groans and ducks down to suck on my nipple, and my belly twists in response. “Ah, Claire. This pussy. It’s so hot and tight and sweet.”

“And yours,” I add, breathless and giddy. “It’s all yours.”

Elliot switches to my other nipple, dragging hard with his hot mouth, and I cry out at the ceiling.

And I’m arched like that, all dizzy and dazed, feeling my husband claim my body like a one-man invading army when it happens. Elliot’s cock moves inside me right as his thumb rubs my clit—and it—and I—

“Shit!” My toes curl as I come, every muscle in my body locking tight. Pleasure floods me, hot and electric, and I shudder through waves and waves of breathless sensation. I’m shaking in a cage of strong arms, so vulnerable and so protected.

Elliot is mine.

Mine.

Mine.

And my body is as greedy as my thoughts, clamping down on Elliot and keeping him wedged deep as I come and come and come. Feels so good to have him inside me; so good to be full. Connected.

When I drift back to reality, there’s fabric in my mouth. I splutter, reeling back, before my sludgy brain realizes that I bit down on Elliot’s shoulder. He huffs out a laugh, moving inside me again, and kisses my temple.

“Finished gnawing on me?”

“Uh.” I stick my tongue out, still tasting shirt. “Yeah.”

“Can I—?”

Another hungry clench low in my belly. Can he come inside me?

“Yes.” God, yes. I want that so badly.

So my husband growls, low and pleased, and snaps his hips a few more times before burying as deep in me as he can go. His whole body going taut as he holds his breath. I hold mine too, desperate to feel every detail.

Then Elliot swells inside me, and delicious wet heat floods my channel, filling me up as I pant and squirm from the pleasure of it. So good. It spills down my thighs and drips onto the desk—and divorce papers—below.

“Now we really can’t use these,” I say a few minutes later, yanking a damp, torn paper from beneath my ass and waving it. The words have blurred into a smudgy mess, and there’s a chunk left behind beneath my butt.

Elliot smirks, wiping gently between my thighs with a damp cloth he fetched a moment ago.

“Too bad. Guess you’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”

* * *

One year later

“Elliot! Elliot Ramsay! Over here! Look here!”

The strobing flash of dozens of cameras is like a tiny explosion—a blinding pop of light. I wobble on my heels, still not used to being in the thick of all these paparazzi, but Elliot steadies my elbow.

We’re at the city museum, at a charity gala for a cause that Elliot donates a ton of money to. You’d think after years as Elliot’s assistant, coming to these events as his right hand woman, I’d be used to all the cameras and yells from the crowd behind the barriers.

But back then, I was invisible. No one knew or cared who I was.

These days… well, I’m the woman who tamed the notoriously icy tech wunderkind. Not only that, but I’m carrying his baby with an obvious bump that no dress can hide. The paparazzi take almost as many photos of me as they do of Elliot these days.

“Claire! Claire! Over here!”

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