Page 101 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

His hands tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. I taste mint and coffee and that indefinable something that is purely Gideon. His cologne floods my nostrils. But I find myself wanting more and more of it.

Ofhim.

This is a terrible idea. Absolutely terrible. Top five worst ideas ever.

And yet I can’t seem to stop. Don’t want to stop.

His body drives me into the living room wall. I squeeze my thighs tighter around his waist, wanting him so badly. Through the wall of windows behind him, the Manhattan skyline spreads out like a glittering backdrop to our moment of madness.

Anyone in those buildings could be watching right now.

The thought sends an unexpected thrill through me instead of the embarrassment I probably should feel.

And of course, if any of Blackwell’s goons are watching, it’s all part of the show...

His mouth trails down my neck, leaving a path offire in its wake. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my skin.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp instead.

His hands sweep down my sides, settling on my hips with a grip that’s just shy of painful. There’s an edge to his touch that wasn’t there before. A possessiveness, a need to control that should probably scare me but instead makes everything inside me tighten with want.

“I need—” he starts, then shakes his head, pressing his forehead against mine. “I need to know you’re safe.”

“I’m right here,” I whisper. “Safe.”

His response is a low growl that vibrates through my entire body. He stops pinning me to the wall and I lower my legs. His hand slides between us, finding the waistband of my paint-splattered sweatpants. I should feel self-conscious. I’m hardly dressed for seduction. But the hunger in his eyes leaves no room for doubts.

His fingers slip beneath the elastic, and I gasp. His fingers find me already wet, ready for him, and the sound he makes, that half groan, half curse, turns me on even more. He circles my clit with maddening precision, and my head falls back against the wall.

He presses his body against mine, his lips finding my mouth. The cold wall bites into my shoulders, a stark contrast to the heat pooling low in my belly. His fingertips are brushes, painting pleasure in broad, reckless strokes. Cerulean need, vermilion want. I’m a canvas coming alive under his touch, every nerve singing.

His free hand grips my thigh, hiking it higher, wider, and suddenly I’m grateful for the wall holding me up.

“So fucking responsive,” he mutters, breaking thekiss, and I can’t tell if it’s praise or a curse. The city lights blur behind him, a thousand distant eyes.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I force my eyes open to find his gaze locked on my face, intense and possessive. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and something inside me melts at the praise.

Since when did ‘good girl’ become your kryptonite? File that away for later therapy sessions.

His fingers work magic between my legs, building a rhythm that has me panting and clutching at his shoulders.

“I love touching your soft, tight pussy,” he says.

His words unravel me further. The pad of his thumb presses harder, a metronome syncing with the throbbing in my core. I bite my lip to stifle a whimper, but hetsks, sliding his free hand up to pry my jaw open.

“Let mehearyou.” The command is velvet-wrapped steel, and I obey, gasps spilling freely now. He drinks them in, his breath ragged against my cheek. “That’s it. Every sound, every shiver—mine.”

Through the haze of pleasure, I’m once again dimly aware of the floor-to-ceiling windows, of how exposed we are. The exhibitionist thrill of it only heightens everything, and when his thumb presses firmly against my clit while two fingers curl inside me, I come apart with a cry that I muffle against his shoulder.

I’m close. So close. The world is narrowing, focusing down to this one point, this one sensation.

“Yes... yes...”

His thumb, tracing circles. Slow, then faster. Each touch a spark. He abruptly slides his fingers free, and my pussy clenches around nothing,desperate.

“Don’t stop!”I beg.

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