Page 102 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

His teeth graze my earlobe. “Are you sure?”

“Please!”

I hear the wet sound of his fingers moving inside me once again, obscene and perfect, and writhe as he finds that tender spot within me once more.

Yes.

Yes.

I hear his voice. “You’re going to come just for me.”

Building. Coiling. A brushstroke poised to ruin the canvas.

“Yes I will. Please... please. Don’t stop...”

“Look at me when you come,” he growls.

Our eyes lock as the wave breaks—

“Yes... yes...YES!”

My body arches, a silent scream on my lips as pleasure cracks through me, electric and blinding. I shudder against the wall behind me. He doesn’t relent, fingers gentling but not stopping, prolonging the aftershocks.

As I tremble through them, reality tries to reassert itself. This is a terrible idea. We have a contract.

But then he’s lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me through the penthouse, and rational thought takes a back seat to the feel of his hard body against mine.

One thought does break through all the rest, however.

“I’m covered in paint,” I manage to say, my voice breathless. “From the studio.”

“Shower,” he agrees, already changing direction.

The master bathroom is all gleaming marble and glass, the massive shower with its multiple heads a testament to Gideon’s love of luxury. He sets medown only long enough to strip us both, his movements efficient but his eyes never leaving mine. I should feel self-conscious. I’m not model-perfect after all, and he’s seen more than his fair share of beautiful women. But the raw hunger in his gaze leaves no room for insecurity.

Or maybe the near-death experience and orgasm have just short-circuited your usual self-doubt. Either way, enjoy it while it lasts.

The water is perfectly hot when we step under the spray, steam billowing around us. Gideon backs me against the marble wall, his body caging mine as the water sluices over us both. His cock is hard against my stomach, a reminder of how much more there is to come.

His hands glide over my shoulders first, palms slick with sandalwood soap. “You’re a mess,” he mutters, though the roughness in his voice betrays him. I can tell he’s barely controlling himself. Well, I guess that gorgeous, throbbing cock of his is an obvious giveaway.

The water cascades between us as he works methodically down my arms, rinsing flecks of cerulean from my skin. Each stroke turns deliberate where there isn’t any paint: the dip of my waist, the curve of a breast. My breath hitches when his thumb grazes a nipple.

“Just cleaning,” he lies, dragging a lathered washcloth over my stomach, lower,lower, until I’m gripping his biceps for balance.

“You missed a spot,” I challenge, nodding at the smudge of vermillion still clinging to my hip.

His gaze darkens. “Did I?” His voice is hoarse, and he drops the cloth, using his bare hand to scrub the stubborn pigment, calluses catching onsensitive skin. The paint dissolves under his touch, but his fingers linger, exploring the heat between my thighs instead. I arch into him, water sluicing over us as he teases, “Still so desperate for me, even now.”

I merely moan, trailing my fingernail down his perfect, glistening chest. I want him so bad.

A muscle ticks in his jaw. Can he see my want?

Of course he can.

He steps back abruptly, thrusting the soap into my hand. “Your turn.”

The shift in power is electric. I take my time, lathering the bar, the scent of his cologne vanishing in the crisp notes of the soap. His body is a landscape of tension. Corded forearms braced against the shower wall, water streaming through the grooves of his abdomen. I trace each ridge, smiling when his stomach quivers. “Ticklish, billionaire?”

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