Page 128 of Billion Dollar Revenge

Her back arches, and she cries out my name as she orgasms. I keep going to ride out her release, and then when she’s almost done, I stop and jerk inside her.

My breath catches in my lungs like a burn. When we’re finished, I kiss her lips and whisper, “I love you, Shell.”

This is it. My dream girl is mine.

Epilogue

Chelsea

Evan slips his handinto mine and pulls me to his car—black, sporty, expensive. Not in the least bit surprising. After a good night with him, I’m on my way to my first class in my own studio. Evie held the morning classes, and I’m going to take over for the afternoon.

I knew the early morning classes after a grand opening would be too much. I’m thanking myself for thinking ahead.

He pulls the car into the lot, and we take the elevator up. I hit my level, but he doesn’t hit his.

I turn to face him. “You don’t have to drop me off at the door.”

He moves his lips to my ear. “I do.”

My teeth skim my bottom lip. “Okay.”

The doors open, and we arrive in front of my glass doors. He unlinks our hands, and his fingers grab something from his pocket.

My eyebrows knit together, wondering what he’s doing.

“My office keys,” he says, opening his hand to reveal a set of keys.

My eyes flick between the keys and his eyes as a smile breaks out on my lips.

“I guess you’ll need mine.”

He nods.

I grab his keys and wind them on my keychain before opening my purse and looking for my spare.

Spotting it, I hand it over.We exchanged office keys.

We gaze at each other. Does he realize how monumental basic things like this are for me? I craved such silly little things like this, and with Evan, he initiates it.

He steps into my space, reaching for my chin to tip it up. The touch and the deep soul-searching stare make me quiver inside.

“Have a great first day.” He kisses me in a slow, drugging kiss. His hand slips to my throat, and my pulse beats widely against the pressure. When he pulls away, I’m in a daze.

“See you after work.”

My brain snaps awake. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I want to.”

“Well, who am I to argue?”

“What time do you finish?” he asks.

“Nine-thirty.”

“Pick you up then. Stay here, don’t go downstairs.” His voice is firm, with a hint of warning.

“Never.” I give him a knowing smile and head inside the studio.

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