Page 2 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 3

There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair looks like he’s been pushing it back from his forehead for hours in some kind of act of frustration. He looks exhausted, and a little bit manic.

“You’re here,” is all he says when he sees me standing in his apartment.

“I’m here,” I reply.

He crosses the floor in two steps, pulling me into his arms. His mouth is covering mine before I can say a single more word, or ask him where his sofa went. It actually takes me a moment to surrender to him, because I’m so confused by the cold, austere world he apparently inhabits. For the first time, I don’t sink into the heat of his body. The driver said this was his residence, and maybe he just moved in and is waiting for all his stuff to arrive, but something tells me this is actually just it. It’s just like his office at Scour — just like all the offices at Scour. Cold, white, and devoid of emotion.

But Nixon isn’t devoid of emotion. Not right now. And when he begins to walk me backwards towards the windows, his tongue parting my lips, I awaken to his desire.

I feel my back press up against cold glass. He reaches for the hem of my tank top and lifts it over my head. When he sees that I’m not wearing a bra (it’s the first thing I take off as soon as I get home from work, and it’s currently draped over the back of my couch at my apartment across the river in Cambridge), he lets out a low groan. He ducks his head and suck one of my nipples into his mouth, his hand reaching up to gently pinch my other nipple between his thumb and first finger. I think I now know the meaning of the phrase “hurts so good.” I’m already breathless, but then he spins me around, his chin resting on my shoulder, his hands cupping my breasts.

“Like what you see?” He asks.

“I didn’t come here for the view,” I reply.

“That’s my girl,” he says, and I can hear his lips curled up into a smile. Behind me, he sheds his sweater, and I hear him making quick work of his belt. I look down to watch his pants drop to the floor, and then he’s pushing down the waist of my skirt, until it joins his pants. I’m struck for a moment by the fact that our clothes are literally the only things on the floor in this entire apartment (well, what I’ve seen of it, at least), but that thought quickly melts away when he leans into me, his hard cock pressing into the small of my back.

“Can anyone see us?” I ask, staring out the windows, already dripping wet and dying to feel him inside me.

“Does it matter?” He asks. He takes hold of his cock and runs it along my ass. I lean back into him. He starts to bend down to reach for his jeans, and I know what he’s getting.

“Wait,” I say. I grab his wrist, spinning around to face him. “I’m on the pill. And I’ve been tested. So if you…” I trail off, not sure if I’m out of line. We never have these kinds of discussions. Or any kinds of discussions. Our talks usually fall into the “oh god” and “I’m gonna come” categories. Condoms just happened, as well they should have. But I know what I want, and I want him to know it, too.

“I’m good,” he tells me, and then his eyes flash when he realizes what this means. I start to turn back around, press my hands up against the glass so he can enter me from behind, but he stops me. “No,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “I want to watch you.”

He reaches down and grabs the back of my thigh, hiking one leg up so I’m open wide to him. His erection hovers between us, and I want him so bad I can taste it. But when I reach for him, to guide him inside me, he pushes my hand away. Because he’s in charge right now. This moment, this is his, and he’s going to take me.

Nixon usually drives into me with weight and force and purpose, but this time, he slides in nice and slow. I feel every ridge, every inch, as he enters, his cock rock hard and so warm. I didn’t know anything could feel this good, and when I try to push my hips into him, to take him faster, he grabs my hips to stop me.

“No,” he growls, looking straight into my eyes. There are flashes of fire amidst the cold blue of his irises. It ignites a heat deep within me. “Mine.”

He grabs my wrists and pins them over my head against the glass, his eyes never leaving mine, as he fucks me slowly and deliberately. He owns every second of this, and he loves it.

I love it.

I let go and relinquish all control to him. I let my body respond to his, my hips moving to his slow, steady rhythm. Every time I feel the urge to close my eyes, he squeezes my wrists, bringing me back to him.

“I want to see the moment I make you come,” he says, his voice full of steel.

He must see it before I even realize it’s happening, because his eyes narrow, and his pace picks up. Soon the slow, deliberate rhythm becomes more desperate, more insistent. He’s literally beckoning me to come. I’m pushing harder into him, feeling him hit deeper inside me than he ever has before. My orgasm builds with each thrust, until I’m crying out, begging him.

“More,” I say, the word coming out in a heave of breath. “Harder. Don’t stop.”

His only response is to fuck me harder, faster, and with more passion.

“I’m going to come,” I cry. At that, he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist, so that he’s holding me up as he fucks me to completion. I wrap my arms around him, feeling the ripple of muscles along his back with each thrust of his hips. “I’m coming. I’m coming now.”

And all the while, his eyes never leave mine, like he’s drinking up my orgasm. And the heat of his gaze makes the crashing waves even more intense. Right when I fall over the edge, I see his eyes narrow, his mouth dropping open slightly. And then I feel the heat as he explodes inside me, following me right over the cliff. Our shared orgasms seem to last forever. I never want them to stop.

I never want this to end.

“Fuck, Delaney,” he pants, gently lowering me to the cold concrete floor. “What are you doing to me?”

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